Exposed (33 page)

‘You’re the one who ought to watch what you’re saying,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Yes, I’ve made mistakes, but nothing as big as the one you’re making right now.’

From the corner of her eye she saw Anders Schyman walking towards his glass aquarium with a cup of coffee. She fixed her eyes on the back of his head and went after him. Computers, people, shelves, plants all flew past as detached fragments until she was standing in front of him.

‘You’re firing me?’ she said, far too shrilly.

The head editor guided her into his office and pulled the curtains. She sank onto the tobacco-engrained sofa and stared at him.

‘Of course we aren’t,’ he said.

‘The union want me out of here,’ she said, her voice shaking.

Don’t start crying now, she thought.

Anders Schyman sighed and nodded, sitting beside her on the sofa.

‘I can’t work out how the union reps think,’ he said. ‘A lot of them seem to be on the committee just to make themselves feel important. They don’t give a damn about their members; they just want to feel influential.’

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

He looked at her calmly. ‘Because that’s what’s happening in this instance.’

She blinked.

‘I’m afraid there’s no vacancy for you at the moment,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘We can’t employ everyone who shows talent. There’s only one vacancy this autumn.’

‘And that’s gone to Carl Wennergren?’ Annika said.

‘Yes,’ the editor said, staring at the floor.

Annika laughed. ‘Congratulations! This paper really does get the people it deserves!’ she said, standing up.

‘Sit down,’ Schyman said.

‘Why?’ Annika said. ‘There’s no reason to stay in this
building another damn second. I’m leaving today, just like the union want.’

‘You’ve still got a week and a half left,’ the head editor said. ‘Stick it out.’

She laughed again. ‘And eat shit?’

‘In small doses and under the right circumstances that can be character-building,’ Anders Schyman said with a smile.

She made a face.

‘I’ve got time owing.’

‘Yes, you have. But I want you to stick it out to the end.’

She went over to the door, then stopped.

‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said. ‘Would this paper ever pay for a tip-off from a terrorist group?’

‘What do you mean?’ he said, standing up.

‘Exactly what I say: money to tag along on a terrorist attack?’

He folded his arms and looked at her hard.

‘Do you know something?’

‘I never reveal my sources,’ she said.

‘But you are actually employed on this paper,’ he said. ‘And I’m your boss.’

She pulled her ID card out of its holder and laid it on his desk.

‘Not any more,’ she said.

‘I want to know why you asked,’ he said.

‘I want an answer,’ she said.

He looked at her without speaking for several seconds.

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘That would never happen. Not in a million years.’

‘If the paper had done so since you started work here, then you’d know about it?’

His eyes darkened.

‘I assume that I would,’ he said.

‘And you can guarantee that it hasn’t happened?’

He nodded slowly.

‘Okay,’ she said breezily. ‘That’s fine. Well, it’s been nice knowing you.’

She held out her hand in an arrogant gesture.

He didn’t take it.

‘What are you going to do now?’

Annika looked at the editor with derision.

‘And what’s that got to do with you?’

‘I’m interested,’ he answered nonchalantly.

‘I’m going to the Caucasus,’ she said. ‘Flying out tomorrow.’

Anders Schyman blinked.

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he said. ‘There’s a civil war going on there.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Annika said. ‘I’ll be staying with the guerrillas, so I’ll be fine. The government troops haven’t got any weapons. The global community has made sure the slaughter’s entirely one-sided. Good luck with getting this paper back on its feet again. You’ve got one hell of a job ahead of you. The bosses have no idea what they’re doing.’

She put her hand on the door, then paused.

‘You really have to get rid of that sofa,’ she said. ‘It stinks.’

She left the door wide open. Anders Schyman watched her cruise across the newsroom. She went over to her desk, her movements jerky and angry. She didn’t say a word to anyone on her way out.

Anne Snapphane wasn’t at her desk.

Just as well, Annika thought. All I want is to get out of here without going to pieces. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing that.

She gathered her belongings together, and managed to grab a few packs of pens, a pair of scissors and a stapler. Good. They owed her that much, the bastards.

She left the newsroom without looking back. In the lift she felt a sudden surge of anger. She had trouble breathing, and stared at her face in the mirror. The same blue-tinged pallor as usual.

Fucking lights, she thought. And this is summer. Imagine what you’d look like in this lift in the middle of winter.

I’m never going to find out, she thought a second later. This is the last time I’ll be in here.

The lift stopped with its familiar jolt. She pushed the heavy door open and headed towards the fog outside. Tore Brand must have gone off on holiday, because there was a woman she didn’t recognize sitting behind the glass of the reception desk.

The front doors slid shut behind her. Well, that was that.

She stood for a while facing the turning circle in front of the building, breathing in the damp air. It felt raw and unpleasant.

She recalled what she had said to Schyman up in his office.

Where did that bit about the Caucasus come from? she wondered. Mind you, maybe it wasn’t such a stupid idea to go abroad, on some last-minute holiday.

A figure emerged from the veils of fog drifting over the road. Carl Wennergren. He was carrying two heavy bags full of bottles. Naturally, he was going to celebrate his luck!

‘Congratulations,’ Annika said sourly as he passed her.

He stopped and put the bags down.

‘Yes, it feels really great,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Six months, the longest temp position I could have got. Then I start looking again.’

‘It must feel good,’ Annika said. ‘Getting in here, all as a result of your own effort. And your own money.’

The man smiled nervously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Daddy’s little rich boy,’ Annika said. ‘Did you already have the money in the bank, or did you have to sell off part of your investment portfolio?’

His smile vanished instantly. He turned away and clenched his teeth.

‘So you got the push, then?’ he said brightly.

Her voice sounded shrill when she replied.

‘I’d rather live on cat food than buy myself a job from a group of terrorists!’

He looked her up and down scornfully.

‘Bon appétit,’
he said. ‘You’re actually a bit scrawny. It probably tastes better with a bit of seasoning.’

He picked up his bags and turned to go into the building. Annika could see they were full of bottles of Moët & Chandon.

‘And not only did you buy yourself a scoop and a six-month contract,’ Annika said, ‘you also shafted your sources.’

He stopped and looked round.

‘You’re talking crap,’ he said, but she could see anxiety in his eyes.

She walked closer to him.

‘How the fuck could the police know that the Ninja Barbies were going to be at that precise place at that precise time? How the hell did they know which houses to evacuate? How come they were under cover in exactly the right places?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ Carl said, running his tongue over his lips.

She took another step closer to him, snarling right in his face.

‘You sold out your own sources,’ she said. ‘You worked with the police so you could get pictures of the arrest, didn’t you?’

He raised his eyebrows, leaned his head back and looked at her scornfully.

‘And …?’ he said.

She lost her grip and started yelling. ‘Christ, what a fucking heap of shit you are! Fuck you!’

He turned and started walking towards the door.

‘You’re not right in the head,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘You’re fucking nuts! Fucking bitch!’

He disappeared through the glass doors. Annika could feel tears welling up.

Bastard! He strolls in with champagne, and they throw me onto the street.

‘Bengtzon, do you want a lift?’

She spun round. Jansson was sitting in a rusty old Volvo at the entry to the garage.

‘What are you doing here at this time?’ she called.

‘Recruitment meeting,’ he said, switching off the engine. She went over to the car as the night-editor climbed out of it.

‘God, you look tired,’ she said.

‘Yes, I was working last night,’ he said. ‘But I really wanted to be at this meeting. I wanted to lobby in your favour.’

She looked at him sceptically. ‘Why?’

He lit a cigarette.

‘I think you’re the best temp we’ve had this summer. I thought you should have got the six-month contract. So did Anders Schyman.’

Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? So why didn’t I get it?’

‘The editor-in-chief didn’t agree. If you ask me, the man’s an idiot. He’s terrified of any sort of disagreement, and the union was against you.’

‘Yes, I worked that out,’ she said.

They stood in silence as Jansson smoked.

‘So you’re leaving now?’

Annika nodded.

‘Maybe you can come back another time,’ Jansson said.

Annika laughed. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that.’

The night-editor laughed too.

‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’ She looked at the exhaustion in his face and shook her head.

‘I’ll walk,’ she said. ‘I want to enjoy this beautiful weather.’

They both looked up at the fog and laughed.

*   *   *

Her clothes reeked of cigarette smoke, so she pulled them off and left them in a heap on the floor out in the hall. She pulled on her dressing-gown and sat down on the sofa in the living room.

Patricia was out somewhere, which was just as well. She reached for the phone book.

‘You can’t leave the Journalists’ Union just like that, you know,’ an operator at the union told her reproachfully.

‘Really?’ Annika said. ‘So what do I have to do?’

‘First of all you have to write to your local group and ask to leave, then you have to write to us here. Then you have to confirm your resignation six months later, both locally and to us.’

‘You’re joking!’ Annika said.

‘The six months are counted from the first day of the following month. Which means that the earliest you can leave the union is the first of March next year.’

‘And I have to pay the full membership fee until then?’

‘Yes, unless you stop working as a journalist.’

‘Ah, well, you see, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ Annika said. ‘As of now.’

‘So you’re leaving your current position?’

She sighed. ‘No, I’ve got a permanent contract with the
Katrineholm Courier.’

‘Then you can’t leave.’

I’m going to strangle this stupid bitch with the phone-wire, Annika thought.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m leaving the union, now! Today. For ever. Whatever I do or don’t do is none of your damn business. I’m not paying another penny to your rotten union. Take me off your database, right now.’

The woman on the other end was angry and insulted.

‘I certainly can’t do that,’ she said. ‘And anyway, it isn’t our union, it’s yours.’

Annika gave up, and started laughing.

‘God, you’re just unbelievable,’ she said. ‘If you won’t let me leave at once, I’ll pay for the privilege. Send me a paying-in slip.’

‘We don’t work like that.’

Annika swallowed and closed her eyes. It felt like her brain was about to explode.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Fine. And I want to give up my right to unemployment support from you as well! Go to hell!’

She put the phone down and leafed through the phone book again. She called the General Workers’ Union on Sveavägen.

‘I’d like to join your unemployment programme,’ she said.

‘Great! Sure, I’ll send the papers.’

As easy as that.

She went out into the kitchen and made a sandwich. She ate half, then threw the rest away. Then she found a pad of paper and settled down. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then wrote two letters. She had to go and buy envelopes and stamps from the Japanese newsagent on the corner.

It was already evening by the time Patricia walked into the hall and almost tripped on the pile of clothes.

‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Have you been at the pub?’

Annika poked her head out from the kitchen.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your clothes smell of pub.’

‘I got the sack.’

Patricia hung up her jacket and went into the kitchen.

‘It’s started raining again,’ she said, pushing her hair from her face.

‘I know,’ Annika said. ‘I just got in.’

‘Have you eaten?’

Annika shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You’ve got to eat,’ Patricia said encouragingly.

‘Otherwise what? Bad karma?’

Patricia smiled. ‘Karma means your sins from a past life catching up with you in this one. This is called hunger. People die from it, you know.’

She went over to the stove, cracked some eggs and started cooking. Annika looked out of the window as the rain rattled down, making the grey evening even more dismal.

‘It’ll soon be autumn,’ Annika said.

‘There you go, mushroom omelette,’ Patricia said, sitting down opposite her.

To her own surprise, Annika ate the whole lot.

‘So what do you mean, “got the sack”?’ Patricia said.

Annika looked down at her empty plate.

‘They didn’t extend my contract. The union wanted me gone right away.’

‘They’re idiots,’ Patricia said, so firmly that Annika couldn’t help laughing.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they are. I left the union.’