Authors: Camilla Ceder
And
that was why she cursed Christian Tell. Not only had he brought her old demons
to the surface, he had also rejected her as a woman. Because she had to accept
that that was how it was. He hadn't answered his phone for two days, nor had he
called her back, even though she had left several messages.
The
desire to key in his number came back, although it was only five minutes since
her last attempt. She sighed. This really wouldn't do. She was an adult now:
she knew perfectly well that nobody dies because of an unhappy love affair, not
really. It was time she started behaving accordingly.
The
case on which the unreliable rat was working was constantly in the back of her
mind, the reason why she had got involved with him in the first place.
In
the locked drawer of the desk she had inherited from old man Gren lay the
folder containing the photographs from Björsared. During those first days, when
she had still been in a state of shock, she had asked herself over and over
again what she should do with the memories that had suddenly started clamouring
for her attention.
Then
the love affair with the inspector had got in the way. In his presence she had
felt safe enough to put her thoughts to one side. Only then was she able to
start writing. It was a contradiction she accepted: she needed a certain amount
of distance from the experience.
A reasonable space between
herself and the dead man.
The
empty space Christian Tell had left behind after such a short time made her
realise how much she needed love, a man in her life, to feel completely
contented. This terrified her, and once again made her prey to unwelcome
thoughts.
She
was hurled back helplessly to that period in the mid-90s when she had bleached
blonde hair and a ring through her lower lip, and had clung to one boy after
another out of a thirst for love which, despite the change in strategy, was not
so different from her behaviour to this day. The thought was painful and she
pushed it away; there were no other similarities. It was only ten years ago,
but it was a different life. None of the friends she knew then were still
around.
Unless Hanna… perhaps Hanna was still around?
She had been
the last 'best friend' before the phrase became alien and embarrassing. A few
years ago they had tried to re-establish contact, meeting for coffee a couple
of times, a few beers, chatting about the old days. There had been something
forced about Hanna at the time, a false familiarity that Seja didn't recognise
from their teenage years.
But
she herself had chosen to present selected highlights of her life, embroidering
and enhancing both past and present. Yet she had felt disappointed afterwards.
So much was left unsaid and still remained between them, because neither of
them was ready to talk. The last time Seja had tried to ring her, Hanna had
moved - with no forwarding address.
Now
that Hanna Aronsson's face, plastered with too much makeup, had appeared in her
mind's eye once again, Seja was unable to shake off the image. She felt ready
to talk to Hanna now.
She
would be lying to herself if she pretended she could free herself of the sense
of unease. On New Year's Eve Christian had mentioned the other murder, and it
had hit her like a body blow.
She
would never be free unless she took action.
Starting right
now.
Directory
Enquiries was able to offer the numbers of six Hanna Aronssons in the
Gothenburg area. The first was in Engelbrektsgatan in Vasastan, and the woman
put the phone down on Seja as soon as she realised it was a wrong number. There
was a Hanna Aronsson in Gåsmossen in Askim and one on Danska vagen, but neither
of them was home.
At
the fourth attempt, on Paradisgatan in Masthugget, she struck lucky. She
recognised Hanna's voice straight away. Dark and slightly tense, she had had an
adult's voice even when she was a teenager with green and pink striped hair
dyed at home in the bath and Doc Martens scuffed to precisely the right degree.
Hanna
had been Seja's best friend from year 9 onwards, crossing all boundaries and
with a certain semi-erotic charge.
As teenage friendships so
often were.
They had found each other in the self-evident way people do
when they need each other. For a few tempestuous years they had shared clothes
and confidences, top to toe in Hanna's bed. They had even shared a boyfriend
for a few days: it turned out the boy they had both been referring to as The
One was in fact the same boy - a discovery that temporarily made them bitter
enemies, before they came to their senses and ganged up on him instead.
Seja
was overcome with nostalgia: Hanna's narrow bed on Landsvagsgatan with a pot of
tea on a tray at the foot and a fantastic mixture of music on the stereo: Cindy
Lauper, Doom, Asta Kask,
Kate
Bush.
Barricaded
in Hanna's room, safe from her mother, who would be drinking wine in the living
room and listening to Ulf Lundell through her headphones, in a bad mood as
usual.
A few years later she would tragically take her own life. Seja
had read about it in the paper, a small item stating that one of Gothenburg's
cultural figures had been found dead in her apartment, no suspicion of foul
play.
They
were in the same class, and even if Hanna's mother and Seja's parents were not
particularly keen on the fact that Seja stayed over on week nights, they
obviously weren't sufficiently annoyed to put a stop to it. On Landsvagsgatan,
sitting in a fog created by the cigarettes they rolled themselves, Hanna and
Seja knew nothing of the future. Seja in her semi-transparent and, as she
thought at the time, wonderfully kitsch nightdress from the 60s; it was so big
over her almost imperceptible bust that the decolletage was practically down to
her waist. Towards midnight they would turn down the music and start
whispering; they didn't want to risk Hanna's half-cut mother banging on the
door and yelling at them to be quiet. Luckily the location of Hanna's room
meant that they could sneak into the kitchen - to make another pot of herbal
tea with honey - and go to the toilet, a trip they made countless times during
the night as a direct consequence of all that tea, without passing her mother's
bedroom.
In
the mornings Hanna's bedroom floor was sticky with spilt tea and honey. Empty
record sleeves lay all over the place, interspersed with books from which they
had been reading aloud to each other: poetry anthologies written by young adults,
containing great pronouncements about love at the time of life when it is
stronger than it will ever be again.
She
no longer remembered what it was that had split them up.
Oh yes, grammar
school
- they had chosen different schools. Hanna had started commuting to
a school that was particularly strong in craft. She had dropped out the
following year, but by then it was already too late. The contact was broken.
That was the end of those nights at Landsvagsgatan. It isn't only love that is
stronger and more fragile when we are young. Friendship is the same.
It
was difficult to grasp that it had only been a couple of years. She had thought
that Hanna knew her better than anyone else, certainly better than her parents,
better than her childhood friends, who were denied friendship with this more
grown-up Seja, the Seja who slept with boys and had to have an abortion the
summer after she finished year 11.
It
was as if their friendship culminated that very night. She had collapsed on
Hanna's bed after being released from hospital on the strict understanding that
she would go straight home to her parents. It was as if they had never been
closer. Hanna's mother, talkative after too much red wine, circled suspiciously
around Seja, asking over and over again if she shouldn't perhaps ring her
mother after all. In the end Hanna had screamed at her to stay out of it.
It
was also after that night that their friendship diluted. More and more, they
spent time with other friends. Suddenly their contact was limited to bumping
into each other at parties organised by other people.
Now
Hanna was laughing in embarrassment on the other end of the line.
'It
must be at least six years ago.
Or more.
What are you
up to these days?'
'What
about you?' countered Seja, as she heard a child's voice in the
background.
'Are you a mum?'
'Yes.'
The pride in Hanna's voice was unmistakable. 'His name's Markus and
he's
four.'
'Heavens.
I had no idea you'd had a baby.'
'No,
but that's hardly surprising. I don't think we've spoken for…'
'Six
years, as you said.
Or more.
I…' She hesitated. 'I
read about your mum. I'm really sorry.'
There
was silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment Seja thought she had
jumped in too quickly. She heard Hanna take a deep breath.
'Thank
you. It happened just after we last saw each other. It's terrible that you can
feel so fucking angry with someone because they didn't want to live any more,
but it felt like a betrayal… no, not a betrayal. It was like a fucking punch in
the face. There you go, because you thought I'd always be there for you, just
because I happen to be your mother… I suppose she never felt all that great,
really. She cut her wrists in the bath, you know, like we wrote in our
adolescent poems. That's what she did.'
'I
saw it in the paper, but not how… I mean, I didn't know
she
…'
'I
know. One of "Gothenburg's cultural figures", yeah right. That was
diplomatic, I thought. For the last ten years she wasn't even a former
anything, given that she had never actually been anything in the first place.
Apart from a nasty old alcoholic with an inferiority complex which
she hid beneath delusions of grandeur.
God, aren't I terrible? You can
hear how angry I still am. But you remember what she was like.'
Seja
didn't say anything. She had always felt uncomfortable around Hanna's
mother,
and not in the usual way when a friend's parent is
giving you the third degree. She had never worked out what the problem was.
Hanna
seemed to understand.
'I
mean, I thought she was a pain at the time, but what teenager doesn't think her
mother is a pain? It was only later that I realised she was actually sick in
the head.
An old woman on a permanent ego trip who would
rather rob her child of its mother than pull herself together and get an
ordinary job, like everybody else.
Oh no, she had to be misunderstood, a
maladjusted failed
actress
. Better to die than to work
on the checkout at the local supermarket.'
A
silence followed Hanna's harsh laugh.
'Sorry.
I feel just about as crazy as her right now. You ring me up after all these
years and I come out with all that… It's just that all the memories came
flooding back when I heard your voice.
Getting pissed when we
were teenagers, and our first… first everything.'
'I
suppose that was when we did everything for the first time,' Seja agreed,
regretting the fact that she hadn't got in touch with Hanna before now, hadn't
been more persistent.
She
told her.
'I've
thought about getting in touch lots of times too, but you know… the last few
times we saw each other I wasn't feeling so good…' Hanna hesitated. 'It really
started after I dropped out of school. I had anorexia for a while, and it all
got a bit much. All the boys, all the crap…'
Seja
nodded cautiously, even though they were on the phone. She thought she
understood, having experienced herself how life had suddenly spun faster and
faster in the punk
circle
of which they were on the
periphery, ridiculous teenagers in leather jackets covered in rivets, padlocks
around their necks. After that first, fumbling sexual experience, Seja had believed
this was the key to love and approval, despite the fact that over and over
again it only led to humiliation and a broken heart.
She
remembered the two of them sitting side by side at Hanna's dressing table,
examining their appearance in the mirror.
'We
certainly are two filthy fucking tarts,' Hanna had said, and Seja had nodded
seriously before they both burst out laughing, and Hanna threw a wet towel at
Seja's face.
Seja
had held on to her reputation better than Hanna, because she had met a boy
outside their circle of friends and had stayed with him for six months towards
the end of year u, while Hanna had carried on bed-hopping. The fact that
Hanna's language was coarse with frequent references to sex, effectively hiding
her insecurity, didn't improve the situation. Nor did her appearance: she was
usually squeezed into tight tops and jeans that didn't look half as provocative
on Seja's skinny flat- chested body. The combination of these and Hanna's
well-developed curves was just too much for those around them, who were quick
to judge. Hanna became known as the local bike.