Håkan Nesser - The Living and the Dead in Winsford

I took a drink of my tea, and tried to concentrate. Stared at G’s message and did my best to convince myself that there was no need to worry. Without much success. I cursed the time we lived in, when it was possible for people to contact each other whenever they felt like it, no matter where they were in the world and what the circumstances were. And that people seemed to think they had a right to expect a reply no matter what. That you could contact anybody at all and demand a response more or less immediately.

And that you could even do so anonymously. Things used to be different, I thought. In the old days you could batter somebody to death in Säffle or Surahammar, or indeed in both those places, and then escape to Eslöv where nobody would be able to find you.

No doubt this G wasn’t anonymous as far as Martin was concerned, but that didn’t make the situation any easier. There was no mistaking the threat in the background, and if I didn’t reply it would presumably only make matters worse.

Or was I making a wrong judgement? I went back and looked at G’s previous message.

I fully understand your doubts. This is no ordinary cup of tea. Contact me so that we can discuss the matter in closer detail. Have always felt an inkling that this would surface one day. Best, G

That was hardly any less worrying. I sat there thinking and trying to formulate something for at least twenty minutes before managing to produce the following response:

No worries. Everything is fine, trust me. I am off to a secret place to work for six months. Will not read my e-mail on a regular basis. M

I sent it off, and just after my index finger had pressed the send-key — or perhaps just as I was doing so — I had a sudden impression of having done something rather different. That it was not a question of a centimetre-square button on a keyboard, but the trigger of a gun. It was such a totally surprising and disorientating image that for a few seconds I was not sure whether or not I was awake.

But then one of the girls laughed in front of her computer screen, and everything rapidly became normal again. Castor raised his head, looked at me and yawned. I switched off the computer and resolved to steer well clear of all inboxes for at least a week.

Just as I was about to leave the premises something occurred to me. I turned to Alfred Biggs and asked if he was well acquainted with Winsford and its surroundings.

‘I certainly think I can claim that,’ he said with his usual faint smile. ‘I wasn’t born here, but I’ve lived here for nearly forty years. Why do you ask?’

I hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t see that there was anything presumptuous in what I had in mind.

‘It’s just that I went past a house the other day, along the path that goes from the top of Winsford Hill down into the village — on the other side of Halse Lane, that is — and I saw a boy, or maybe a young man, standing in a window. A few hundred metres before you get to the pub — do you know which house I’m talking about?’

‘Just below the waterfall?’

‘Yes.’

‘An old, dreary-looking stone house standing all by itself?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed. ‘Ah yes. You must be referring to Heathercombe Cottage. It belongs to Mark Britton, poor chap.’

‘Mark. .?’

‘Mark Britton, yes. He lives there with his son. It’s a sad story, but I don’t want to spread gossip.’

He fell silent, evidently feeling that he had said too much already. If he didn’t want to spread gossip. I hesitated once again, but decided not to ask any more questions. Not to allow Pheme her say here as well. Instead I thanked him for the tea and the internet and said I would no doubt be putting in an appearance again a week or so from now.

‘Remember that you only need to knock on my door if there’s nobody here,’ he said again. ‘The red door, with the name Biggs on a plate.’

I promised not to forget. And so Castor and I left the Winsford Computer Centre with another question mark in our pockets.

Mark Britton, poor chap?

‘I think we ought to talk a bit about Rolf. What do you think would have happened to the pair of you if he hadn’t died?’

A year or so had passed. We had a nanny for Gunvald, and Synn was on a waiting list for a day nursery place. I had started working again, and generally met Gudrun Ewerts on Thursday evenings at her surgery near Norra Bantorget.

‘Rolf? I don’t know. . Why should we talk about him?’

‘If he hadn’t had that accident and died when he did your life would have been quite different. Do you never think about that?’

I thought for a moment, and realized that I had occasionally thought along those lines, but decided that life was life. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But isn’t that always the way it is? If this or that hadn’t happened, things would have been different. .’

‘That’s not what I was wondering about. Did you have visions?’

‘Visions?’

‘Yes. Did you sometimes imagine you and Rolf having a family? Having children, and living together for the rest of your lives?’

‘Yes. . No. . I don’t know. I don’t see the point of dragging this up.’

Gudrun leaned back in her soft leather armchair and her face took on that expression indicating she had something important to say. That it was time for me to sit up and take notice. I had had a long working day — perhaps she was assessing my ability to cope with things. She clasped her hands under her chin as well: that was usually a definite sign.

‘It’s because this is a characteristic of yours that it worries me. You have no vision of your future.’

‘No vision of my future?’

‘No. You sometimes give the impression of not caring about your future, and I think that has been the case for a very long time.’

I thought again, and said that I didn’t really understand what she was talking about.

‘I think you do,’ said Gudrun. ‘It has to do with the way you switch off. That was how you reconciled yourself to the death of your sister, and that was how you managed to survive Rolf’s death. And those of your parents. What you really felt on each and every one of these occasions when somebody close to you died was so overwhelming that you couldn’t cope with it. But when you switch off your emotions you unfortunately short-circuit other things that you ought to continue dealing with. Would you say that you love your husband, for instance?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I asked if you love Martin.’

‘Of course I love him. What has that got to do with it?’

‘Do you keep telling him you do?’

‘Of course. Well. . no.’

‘Do you often cry?’

‘You know that I don’t often cry.’

‘Yes. And I also know that you ought to do so.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to laugh?’

Gudrun smiled, but soon became stern again. ‘If you can’t do one, you can’t do the other. Not properly. But you’re extremely good when it comes to smiling on the television.’

I said nothing for a while, and she waited for my next move. The intention was that I should become angry, that was part of her method and I understood that; but I felt too tired to offer her any resistance on this occasion.

‘Why did you want us to talk about Rolf?’ I asked eventually.

‘Because I’m interested in when it started.’

‘Really?’

‘If it was there before he came along. If it began with your little sister, perhaps.’

We sat there in silence again, and I suddenly felt an urgent need to burst into tears. But I also knew that she was right: it was buried so deep down inside me that I couldn’t possibly get near to it. An iceberg of tears.

‘I cried a year ago,’ I said. ‘When I had my depression. When you began treating me.’