The Darkest Room (33 page)

Tilda staggered forward
, heading straight for the blinding wall of swirling snow. Martin was still by her side, but neither of them was talking. It was impossible in the storm.

They were out in a field, but the few times Tilda tried to look up to work out where they were heading, the granules of snow flew into her eyes like burning sparks.

She had lost her police cap; it had been ripped off by the wind and disappeared. She felt as if her ears were frozen solid.

One small encouraging sign was that the storm had briefly carried with it the aroma of burning wood. She guessed that it came from an open fire or stove, and realized they were close to a house—presumably Eel Point.

A rectangular snowdrift appeared in front of them, but when Tilda tried to plow through it, she came to a sudden stop. It was a stone wall.

She slowly clambered over the snow-covered stones, and
Martin followed her. On the other side the ground was flatter, as if they were walking along a little track.

Suddenly Tilda heard a creaking noise further away along the wall, followed by a grinding squeal and a dull thud.

After a minute or so they reached a couple of huge white drifts with square contours. Two parked vehicles were standing there rocking in the wind, half buried in the snow.

Tilda brushed away the snow along the side of the taller vehicle and suddenly recognized it. It was the dark-colored van with kalmar pipes & welding on it.

Further along by the wall lay a boat on a trailer lying on its side. It looked as if it had been picked up and tipped over by the wind.

The boat was still securely tied to the metal frame, but the tarpaulin covering it had split. An extraordinary collection of objects lay scattered in the snow: loudspeakers and chain saws alongside old paraffin lamps and wall clocks.

It looked like stolen goods.

Martin shouted something, but Tilda couldn’t hear what he said. She made her way slowly along the side of the van and tried the doors. The driver’s door was locked, but when she went around to the other side and tried the passenger door, it flew open with a crash.

Tilda climbed in to catch her breath.

Martin stuck his head in behind her, with snow in his hair and eyebrows.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

Tilda massaged her frozen ears and nodded wearily. “Okay.”

The air inside the van was still warm, and she was finally able to breathe normally. She looked behind the seats and saw that the back of the van was full of even more items, all piled on top of one another. There were jewelry boxes and cartons of cigarettes and cases of alcohol.

As she turned back to Martin she discovered that the brown panel inside the passenger door had come loose.

White plastic was protruding beneath the panel—it was a packet of some kind.

“A hiding place,” she said.

Martin looked. Then he got hold of the plastic and pulled, and the whole panel came away and fell off into the snow.

Behind it was a secret cache, full of even more packets.

Martin took out the top one, made a small slit in it with the car key, and put his finger against the gap. He licked the powder off his finger and said, “It’s methamphetamine.”

Tilda believed him—he had taught her group about different types of drugs. She pushed a couple of the packets into her pocket.

“Evidence,” she said.

Martin looked at her as if he wanted to add something, but Tilda didn’t want to hear it. She unfastened her holster and took out her Sig Sauer.

“There are bad guys around here,” she said.

Then she clambered past Martin out into the gale and began to make her way along the track once again.

When she had left the vehicles and the boat behind her, she caught her first glimpse of the beam from the lighthouse: a sweeping glow that only just managed to penetrate through the snowstorm.

They had almost reached Eel Point now. Tilda could see the main house, with faint lights shimmering in the windows.

They were candles, she realized. And Joakim Westin’s car was parked in front of the house beneath a pile of snow.

The family must be at home. In the worst-case scenario they were being held hostage inside by the thieves—but Tilda didn’t want to think along those lines.

The big barn appeared in front of her. She struggled to cover the final few steps to the red wooden wall, and at last found some shelter from the wind. It was a considerable achievement—she breathed out and wiped the melting snow off her face with the sleeve of her jacket.

Now all she had to do was see who was in the house, and what state they were in.

She unzipped her jacket and pulled out her flashlight. With her pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she pressed herself against the wall of the barn, moved slowly forward, and peeped around the corner.

Snow, all she could see was snow. White curtains sweeping down from the roof, and whirlwinds of snow swirling between the buildings.

Martin came up behind her out of the darkness, his back bent, and took shelter by the wall.

“Is this where we were heading?” he yelled.

Tilda nodded and took a deep breath. “Eel Point,” she said.

The main house was about ten yards from the barn. The lights were on in the kitchen, but there was no sign of anyone.

She started moving again, away from the barn and out into the inner courtyard, which was completely covered in snow. It came up to her waist in some places, and she had to force her way through the drifts. She carried on toward the house, her gun at the ready.

There were fresh tracks in the snow here. Someone had recently plodded across the courtyard and walked up the stone steps.

When Tilda reached the veranda, which was in darkness, she looked at the door.

It had been broken open.

She moved slowly up the steps. Then she grabbed hold of the handle, opened the door cautiously, and moved onto the top step.

Then something slender and metallic gray came whirling through the opening. She closed her eyes but didn’t manage to duck or raise her arm in time.

Ax
, was all she managed to think before it hit her in the face.

There was a crunching noise from her own head, then a burning pain seared all the way up her nasal bone.

She could hear Martin shouting in the distance.

But by then she had already begun to fall backward, down the steps and back out into the snow.

Joakim shivered and pushed
the dream-pictures out of his head. A rumble like thunder shook him.

He woke up properly and looked around him. He was sitting in the front row in the prayer room, with Katrine’s Christmas present on his knee.

Katrine?

It was almost completely dark. The flashlight had gone out and the only light came from the single bulb in the loft, seeping in through the narrow gaps in the wall.

And the rumbling noise? The barn hadn’t been struck by thunder or lightning—it was the storm, roaring its way in over the coast.

The blizzard had reached its peak.

The stone walls on the lower floor were immovable, but the rest of the barn was shaking in the wind. The sound of the air being forced in through the cracks rose and fell like a siren around Joakim.

He looked up at the roof beams above his head and thought he could see them trembling. The storm-force winds came pouring in over Eel Point like black waves, making the wooden walls creak and bang.

The blizzard was tearing the barn apart. That’s what it felt like.

But Joakim thought he could hear other sounds too. Rustling noises from inside the room—slow footsteps crossing the wooden floor. Restless movements in the darkness. Whispering voices.

The church benches had begun to fill up behind him.

He couldn’t see who the visitors were, but felt a growing chill in the room. There were many of them, and they were starting to sit down.

Joakim listened, his body tense, but remained where he was.

It was quiet on the church benches now.

But someone else was walking slowly along the aisle beside them. He heard careful noises in the darkness, the scraping sound of footsteps from a figure passing all the benches behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a shadow with a pale face had stopped beside his bench, and was standing there motionless.

“Katrine?” whispered Joakim, without daring to turn his head.

The shadow slowly sat down beside him on the bench.

“Katrine,” he whispered again.

Tentatively he groped in the darkness and his fingers brushed against another hand. It was stiff and ice cold when he took hold of it.

“I’m here now,” he whispered.

There was no reply. The figure bent its head, as if in prayer.

Joakim also lowered his eyes. He looked down at the denim jacket beside him and carried on whispering:

“I found Ethel’s jacket. And the note from the neighbors. I think … Katrine, I think you killed my sister.”

And still there was no reply.

So we sat there in the outbuilding staring at each other, Ragnar Davidsson the eel fisherman and I
.

I was extremely tired by this time. The blizzard was on its way, but I had managed to rescue only a few of Torun’s oil paintings, half a dozen canvases that were lying on the floor next to me. Davidsson had thrown the rest into the sea
.

—
MIRJA RAMBE

WINTER 1962

Davidsson has refilled
his glass with schnapps.

“Sure you don’t want some?” he asks.

When I clamp my lips together, he takes a deep draft from the glass. Then he puts it down on the table and smacks his lips.

He seems to get various inappropriate ideas when he looks at me, but before he has time to select one of them, his guts are suddenly twisted into a knot in his belly. That’s what it looks like to me, anyway—his body jerks, he bends over and presses his arms against his stomach.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

Davidsson tries to relax. But then he suddenly goes rigid again, as if he has suddenly thought of something.

“Oh shit,” he says, “I think …”

He falls silent and looks to one side, still thoughtful—then the whole of his upper body jerks in a violent attack of cramp.

I sit there motionless, staring at him; I don’t say a word. I could ask if he’s not feeling well, but I know the answer: the poison in the glass has finally begun to work.

“It wasn’t schnapps in that glass, Ragnar,” I say.

Davidsson is in a lot of pain now, he is leaning against the wall.

“I put something else in there.”

Davidsson manages to get to his feet and staggers past me toward the door. This suddenly gives me a burst of fresh energy.

“Get out of here!” I yell.

I pick up an empty metal bucket standing in a corner and hit him on the back with it.

“Out!”

He does as I say, and I follow him out into the snow and watch him aim for the fence. He manages to find the opening, and heads on down toward the sea.

The southern lighthouse is flashing blood-red through the falling snow; the northern tower is dark now.

In the darkness I can see Ragnar’s open motorboat bobbing in the sea out by the jetty. The waves are breaking along the shore with a long drawn-out roaring sound, and I ought to try and stop him, but I stay where I am, just watching as he teeters out along the jetty and loosens the ropes. Then he stops, bends over again, and vomits into the water.

He drops the rope and the waves begin to play with the boat, nudging it away from the jetty.

Ragnar seems to be feeling too ill to bother about the boat. He glances out to sea, then begins to stagger inland instead.

“Ragnar!” I yell.

If he asks me for help, he can have it, but I don’t think he can hear me. He doesn’t stop when he reaches the shore, but sets off northward. Heading for home. Soon he has disappeared in the darkness and the snow.

I go back to the
outbuilding and Torun. She is still awake, sitting in her chair by the window as usual.

“Hi, Mom.”

She doesn’t turn her head, but asks, “Where is Ragnar Davidsson?”

I go and stand by the fire and sigh. “He’s gone. He was here for a while … but now he’s gone.”

“Did he throw out the paintings?”

I hold my breath and turn around. “The paintings?” I say, a lump forming in my throat. “Why do you think he would do that?”

“Ragnar said he was going to throw them out.”

“No, Mom,” I say. “Your canvases are still in the storeroom. I can fetch—”

“He should have done it,” says Torun.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I asked Ragnar to throw them in the sea.”

It takes four or five seconds for me to understand what she’s saying—then it’s as if a membrane breaks inside me and dangerous fluids begin to mingle in my brain. I see myself rushing over to Torun.

“Fucking sit here, then, you fucking old cow!” I scream. “Sit here till you die! You fucking blind old …”

I hit her over and over again with the palm of my hand, and Torun can do nothing but take the blows. She doesn’t see them coming.

I count the blows, six, seven, eight, nine, and I stop hitting her after the twelfth.

Afterward both Torun and I are breathing loudly, almost wheezing. The mournful howling of the wind can be heard through the windows.

“Why did you leave me with him?” I ask her. “You should have seen how dirty he was, Mommy, and the stench of him … You shouldn’t have let me go in there, Mommy.”

I pause for a moment.

“But you were blind even then.”

Torun stares rigidly ahead, her cheeks red. I don’t think she has any idea what I’m talking about.

And that was the
end for me at Eel Point. I left and never came back. And I stopped speaking to Torun. I made sure she got a place in a care home, but we never spoke again.

The next day the news came that the evening ferry between Öland and the mainland had capsized in the waves. Several passengers had died in the icy waters. Markus Landkvist was one of them.

Another victim of the storm was Ragnar Davidsson, the eel fisherman. He was found dead on the shore a day or so later. I felt no guilt over his death—I felt nothing.

I don’t think anyone ever lived in the outbuilding again after Torun and me, and I don’t think anyone really lived in the main house again, apart from the odd month in the summer. Sorrow had permeated the walls.

Six weeks later, when I had moved to Stockholm to start at the art school, I found that I was pregnant.

Katrine Månstråle Rambe was born the following year, the first of all my children.

You had your father’s eyes.