Camilla Lackberg - The Ice Child

Frustrated, Erica propped her feet up on the desk and let her thoughts wander. Maybe she should ring her sister. Anna had often been a source of good ideas and new angles in the past, but she was not herself these days. She had gone through so much over the past few years, and the misfortunes never seemed to stop. Part of her suffering had been self-imposed of course, yet Erica had no intention of judging her younger sister. She understood why certain things had happened. The question was whether Anna’s husband could understand and forgive her. Erica had to admit that she had her doubts. She had known Dan all her life. When they were teenagers they’d dated for a while, and she knew how stubborn he could be. In this instance, the obstinacy and pride that were such a feature of his personality had proved self-destructive. And the result was that everyone was unhappy. Anna, Dan, the children, even Erica. She wished that her sister would finally have some happiness in her life after the hell she had endured with Lucas, her children’s father.

It was so unfair, the way their lives had turned out so differently. She had a strong and loving marriage, three healthy children, and a writing career that was on the upswing. Anna, on the other hand, had encountered one setback after another, and Erica had no idea how to help her. That had always been her role as the big sister: to protect and support and offer assistance. Anna had been the wild one, with such a zest for life. But all that vitality had been beaten out of her until what remained was only a subdued and lost shell. Erica missed the old Anna.

I’ll phone her tonight, she resolved as she picked up a stack of newspaper articles and began leafing through them. It was gloriously quiet in the house, and she was grateful that her job made it possible for her to work at home. She had never felt any need for co-workers or an office setting. She worked best on her own.

The absurd thing was that she was already longing for the hour when she would leave to fetch Maja and the twins. How was it possible for a parent to have such contradictory emotions about the daily routines? The constant alternating between highs and lows was exhausting. One moment she’d be sticking her hands in her pockets and clenching her fists, the next she’d be hugging and kissing the children so much that they begged to be let go. She knew that Patrik felt the same way.

For some reason thinking about Patrik and the kids led her back to the conversation with Laila. It was so incomprehensible. How could anyone cross that invisible yet clearly demarcated boundary between what was permitted and what was not? Wasn’t the fundamental essence of a human being the ability to restrain his or her most primitive urges and do what was right and socially acceptable? To obey the laws and regulations which made it possible for society to function?

Erica continued glancing through the articles. What she had said to Laila today was true. She would never be capable of doing anything to harm her children. Not even in her darkest hours, when she was suffering from postnatal depression after Maja was born, or caught up in the chaos following the twins’ arrival, or during the many sleepless nights, or when the tantrums seemed to go on for hours, or when the kids repeated the word ‘No!’ as often as they drew breath. She had never come close to doing anything like that. But in the stack of papers resting on her lap, in the pictures lying on her desk, and in her notes, there was proof that the boundary could indeed be crossed.

In Fjällbacka the house in the photographs had become known as the House of Horrors. Not a particularly original name, but definitely appropriate. After the tragedy, no one had wanted to buy the place, and it had gradually fallen into disrepair. Erica reached for a picture of the house as it had looked back then. Nothing hinted at what had gone on inside. It looked like a completely normal house: white with grey trim, standing alone on a hill with a few trees nearby. She wondered what it looked like now, how run-down it must be.

She sat up abruptly and placed the photo back on her desk. Why not drive out there and have a look? While researching her previous books she’d always visited the crime scene, but she hadn’t done that this time. Something had been holding her back. It wasn’t that she’d made a conscious decision not to go out there; more that she had simply stayed away.

It would have to wait until tomorrow though. Right now it was time to go and fetch her little wildcats. Her stomach knotted with a mixture of longing and fatigue.

The cow was struggling valiantly. Jonas was soaked with sweat after spending several hours trying to turn the calf around. The big animal kept resisting, unaware that they were trying to help her.

‘Bella is our best cow,’ said Britt Andersson. She and her husband Otto ran the farm which was only a couple of kilometres from the property owned by Jonas and Marta. It was a small but robust farm, and the cows were their main source of income. Britt was an energetic woman who supplemented the money they made from milk sales to Arla by selling cheese from a little shop on their property. She was looking worried as she stood next to the cow.

‘She’s a good cow, Bella is,’ said Otto, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. This was her fourth calf. The previous three births had all gone fine. But this calf was in the wrong position and refused to come out, and Bella was obviously exhausted.

Jonas wiped the sweat from his brow and prepared to make yet another attempt to turn the calf so it could finally slide out and land in the straw, sticky and wobbly. He was not about to give up, because then both the cow and the calf would die. Gently he stroked Bella’s soft flank. She was taking, short, shallow breaths, and her eyes were open wide.

‘All right now, girl, let’s see if we can get this calf out,’ he said as he again pulled on a pair of long rubber gloves. Slowly but surely he inserted his hand into the narrow canal until he could touch the calf. He needed to get a firm grip on a leg so he could pull on it and turn the calf, but he had to do it cautiously.

‘I’ve got hold of a hoof,’ he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Britt and Otto craning their necks to get a better look. ‘Nice and calm now, girl.’

He spoke in a low voice as he began to tug at the leg. Nothing happened. He pulled a little harder but still couldn’t budge the calf.

‘How’s it going? Is it turning?’ asked Otto. He kept scratching his head so often that Jonas thought he would end up with a bald spot.

‘Not yet,’ said Jonas through clenched teeth. Sweat poured off him, and a strand of hair from his blond fringe had fallen in his eyes so he kept having to blink. But right now the only thought in his mind was getting the calf out. Bella’s breathing was getting shallower, and her head kept sinking into the straw, as if she were ready to give up.

‘I’m afraid of breaking something,’ he said, pulling as hard as he dared. And something moved! He pulled a bit harder, holding his breath and hoping not to hear the sound of anything breaking. Suddenly he felt the calf shift position. A few more cautious tugs, and the calf was lying on the ground, feeble but alive. Britt rushed forward and began rubbing the newborn with straw. With firm, loving strokes she wiped off its body and massaged its limbs.

In the meantime Bella lay on her side, motionless. She didn’t react to the birth of the calf, this life that had been growing inside of her for close to nine months. Jonas went over to sit near her head, plucking away a few pieces of straw close to her eye.

‘It’s over now. You were amazing, girl.’

He stroked her smooth black hide and kept on talking, just as he’d done throughout the birth process. At first the cow didn’t respond. Then she wearily raised her head to peer at the calf.