He turned, grabbed his coat and left.
As soon as Aida woke up she realized that her fever had broken. Her mind was clear and focused, all traces of pain were gone. She was thirsty.
The woman she had met that morning sat on a stool next to her.
‘Would you like something to drink?’
She nodded and the woman handed her a glass of apple juice. Annika hand shook as she took the glass. She was still weak.
‘How do you feel?’
Aida swallowed, nodded and gazed around the room. A hospital room, a slight sense of discomfort in her right arm, an IV line. She was naked.
‘Much better, thank you.’
The other woman got up and leaned over her.
‘My name is Mia,’ the woman said. ‘I’m going to help you. We’ll be leaving this place tonight, so try and get as much rest as you can. Would you like something to eat – are you hungry?’
Aida shook her head.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, moving her right arm.
‘Intravenous antibiotics,’ Mia said. ‘You had severe double pneumonia. You’ll have to take a course of antibiotics for another ten days.’
Aida closed her eyes and swept her left hand across her forehead.
‘Where am I?’ she whispered.
‘In a hospital far from Stockholm,’ Mia said. ‘My husband and I brought you here.’
‘Am I safe here?’
‘Completely. The doctors are old friends of mine. There’s no record of your stay and we’ll take your chart with us when you go. The guy looking for you won’t find you here.’
Aida looked up.
‘So you know . . .?’
‘Rebecka told me,’ Mia said, leaning over her. ‘Aida,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t trust Rebecka.’
PART TWO
NOVEMBER
NO ONE IS WITHOUT BLAME.
Not even I can avoid the consequences of my actions.
However, feelings of guilt are not assigned in correct proportion to culpability. There is no divine justice when the burden is distributed. The one who should feel the most is often the one who is best able to resist and allow the one equipped with the most capacity for empathy to shoulder the inhuman weight. I won’t do it.
I know what I’ve done and I refuse to accept the role thrust upon me. On the contrary. I intend to continue to use my tools until I reach my objective. Violence has become a part of me, it’s destroying me, but I have accepted my destruction.
My guilt lies deeper, it has filled the part of my soul that I still command. I can never make amends, never be reconciled with my own failing.
I can never receive absolution. My betrayal is as immense as death itself.
I’ve tried to learn to live with it. It isn’t possible, because the paradox lies in my consciousness.
I’m alive, thus I am guilty.
There is only one way to atone for my sins.
THURSDAY 1 NOVEMBER
I
t was snowing. Snowflakes stuck to Annika’s jacket and frosted her hair and the front of her body white. Once on the ground, they quickly dissolved into a mush of salt and water. Annika stepped into a puddle and realized that her shoes leaked.
The civic hall in her district was on her own street, at the top, near Fridhemsplan, in the brick high-rise. The display windows reflected her image – she looked like a snowman. On the other side of the glass a small exhibit notified the public that a new hotel would be built over at the park at Rålambhov, right in the middle of the turn-off to the Essinge Highway, and invited them to share their views on the subject.
Annika rang the bell at the civic hall and was admitted. There was information posted everywhere. She took all the leaflets she could find about nursing homes and the care of the elderly. As she walked away, she noted that there was a funeral parlour next door.
The air between the snowflakes was clean and crisp. Sounds were muffled as if wrapped in blankets. She took the time to listen, to breathe, to explore her feelings. She was well rested, her mind was clear and calm.
There was a way. Things could be arranged.
Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her apartment, her gaze fixed on the steps. Which was why she didn’t see the woman waiting outside her door.
‘Are you Annika Bengtzon?’
She gasped, put a foot down awkwardly and almost fell backwards down the stairs.
‘Who are you?’
The woman held out her hand.
‘My name is Maria Eriksson. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Annika had a sensation of tunnel vision. Her body went into defence mode.
‘What do you want? And how did you find me?’
The woman gave her a pensive smile.
‘You’re listed in the telephone directory, and so is your address. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘What?’
Impatience.
‘I’d rather not say it out here.’
Annika swallowed. She didn’t want to talk, not right now. She wanted to sit on her couch, under a blanket, drink tea and study the leaflets on nursing homes; find the solution, gain peace of mind. She was certain that no matter what this woman wanted to discuss it simply wasn’t her problem.
‘I don’t have the time,’ Annika said. ‘My grandmother is ill and I’ve got to find a place where she can recover from her stroke.’
‘It’s extremely important,’ the woman said gravely.
She made no effort to move away from the door.
Annika’s irritation gave way to rage and then suddenly to fear. The woman in front of her wasn’t going to budge, she commanded respect.
Aida
, Annika thought, backing down.
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one,’ Maria Eriksson replied. ‘I decided to come here. It concerns the Paradise Foundation.’
Suspicion gnawed at Annika. She stared at the woman who calmly returned her gaze.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Annika said.
A desperate expression suddenly appeared in the woman’s eyes.
‘Don’t trust Rebecka,’ she said.
Bingo.
Curiosity immediately got the better of Annika. She no longer wanted to escape. This was her problem, one she had chosen to involve herself in.
‘Come on in,’ she said, going to the door and unlocking it. She hung up her wet things on the bathroom rail, closed the door and pulled off her slacks and socks. Took fresh clothing from the closet, towelled off her hair and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
‘Would you like some coffee, Maria? Or tea?’
‘Call me Mia. No, I’m fine, thank you.’
The woman had settled herself on the living-room couch. Annika made a large pot of lemon tea and brought a tray into the living room.
Maria Eriksson was tense, but composed.
‘You’ve met Rebecka Björkstig, right?’ she asked.
Annika nodded and poured herself some tea.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?’
The woman didn’t seem to hear her.
‘Rebecka has been talking a lot about how you’re going to write a long piece about the foundation in
Kvällspressen
, about what a great set-up it is. Is that true?’
Annika stirred her tea, unable to shake off the sense of apprehension lurking behind her curiosity.
‘I can’t divulge anything about what will or won’t be in the papers.’
Suddenly the stranger sitting on Annika’s couch burst into tears. Not sure what to do, Annika put her cup down on the saucer.
‘Please don’t write anything until you know what’s going on,’ Maria Eriksson begged her. ‘Wait until you have all the facts.’
‘That goes without saying,’ Annika replied. ‘But it’s extremely difficult to gain insight into a foundation. Everything’s so confidential that every last bit of information has to pass through Rebecka.’
‘Her name isn’t Rebecka.’
Annika dropped her spoon in the cup, suddenly speechless.
‘She went by some other name until quite recently, I know that much,’ Maria Eriksson continued, picking up a tissue and wiping her eyes. ‘I’m not sure exactly what her name was – Agneta something, I think.’
‘How do you know that?’ Annika asked.
Maria blew her nose.
‘Rebecka claims I’ve been wiped off the record,’ she said.
Annika stared at the young woman on her couch, so real and so tangible.
Wiped clean!
‘So it works?’ she asked.
The woman put the tissue in her handbag.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it works at all. That’s the problem.’
‘But your record’s been wiped clean?’
Maria emitted a short burst of laughter.
‘I was taken off the record years ago,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been listed anywhere for ages, but that has nothing to do with Rebecka or Paradise. I arranged for protection myself, for me and my family. The problem is that it’s not enough, that’s why I went to Paradise.’
‘So you’re on the inside right now?’
‘My case hasn’t been settled, my district hasn’t endorsed the contract yet,’ Maria Eriksson replied. ‘Which means that I’m not really in, but being on the outskirts like this has provided me with much greater insight into the set-up than if I were mixed up in this business for real.’
Annika reached for her teacup, blew on the beverage and tried to sort out her impressions: fear, doubt, excitement, astonishment. The woman was so real, so blonde and serious, her eyes saw right through things. But was she telling the truth?
Confusion started to take hold of Annika.
‘How long have you been in contact with Paradise?’
‘For five weeks now.’
‘And you haven’t been accepted yet?’
Maria Eriksson sighed.
‘That’s due to Social Services. They’re investigating whether they should pay for our relocation abroad.’
‘Courtesy of Paradise?’
The woman nodded.
‘Rebecka wants six million kronor to help us leave the country. Our case is very cut and dried. The Administrative Court of Appeals has ruled that we are unable to lead a normal life in Sweden – I’ll let you see the court verdict.’
Annika rubbed her forehead.
‘I’ve got to write this down. Is that all right?’
‘Sure.’
She went over to the hallway. Her bag was wet and she dumped out its contents on the floor: a packet of Tenor breath mints, sanitary napkins, a torn train ticket, a pad, a pen and a heavy gold chain.
The gold chain. Annika picked it up. Aida’s gift – she’d forgotten all about it.
Quickly she stuffed everything back in her bag again, except for the pad and pen.
‘Why is your life in danger?’ she asked as she settled back down on the couch.
Maria Eriksson gave her a wan smile.
‘I’d like to have some tea after all, please. The same old story: I fell in love with the wrong guy. I thought you might ask, so I brought my files.’
She pulled out a thick folder.
‘These are copies. If you like, you’re welcome to keep them, but I’d appreciate it if you kept them in a safe place.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Annika said, taking the folder.
‘Attempted strangulation,’ Maria Eriksson replied and stirred sugar in her tea. ‘He pulled a knife on me. Beatings. Rape. An attempt to kidnap our daughter. Damage to our house, everything you could think of. Arson. I can go on for ever, and no one could care less.’
Maria sipped her tea cautiously. Annika felt the familiar sense of rage well up in her.
‘I know what it’s like,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t the police do anything?’
Maria gave her another smile.
‘My parents still live in my home town,’ she said. ‘He would kill them if I talked.’
‘How do you know he’s not bluffing?’
‘He’s tried to run my dad down with a car.’
‘I’ll look through your papers later,’ Annika said, laying the folder down on the floor.
She couldn’t think of anything more to say. She was going to study the documents carefully, but she suspected that they would corroborate Maria’s story. She believed this woman. There was something convincing about her. Maybe it was fear.
They sat in silence for a while, the cups clattering softly.
‘Is the set-up for real?’ Annika wondered.
Maria Eriksson nodded.
‘Rebecka charges people for her services, but that’s about it. As far as I can see, they don’t get anyone off the record. All I’ve ever noticed Rebecka do is to occasionally request a security flag for certain clients.’
‘What’s that?’ Annika asked.
Maria leaned back.
‘There are several types of protection for people who have been threatened,’ she said. ‘The simplest variety is a security flag, where no one can access your personal ID number, your address and your family connections from government sources. All anyone gets is the phrase “protected data”.’
Annika nodded. That was what it had said when she’d looked Rebecka up.
‘That’s fairly unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Less than ten thousand people in Sweden,’ Maria Eriksson replied. ‘The decision to introduce a security flag is made by the director of the local tax office in the community where you are a resident. Harassment must be established before a security flag may be issued.’
‘Do you have a security flag?’
‘No, my family is shielded by classification measures, a more extensive and more complicated method of protection. In cases like these, only one person, the director of the local tax office where you once were a resident, has access to information about your current address. So to be eligible for classification you need to fulfil more stringent criteria as well. The harassment must be serious enough to warrant a restraining order.’
‘How many people are classified in Sweden?’
‘Less than one hundred,’ Maria replied.
She had actually been wiped off the record, for real.
‘Are there other ways?’
‘Well, you can change your name and be assigned a new personal ID number. The National Swedish Police Board will then request that the Internal Revenue Service creates a new personal ID number.’
Here was someone who knew the ropes, Annika thought.
‘Have you changed your identity?’