Now it ranges from pale princess pink to a shocking neon.’
Patrik blinked his eyes. Was this how Maja’s room was going to look in a few years? And what if the twins turned out to be girls? He was going to drown in pink.
‘I’ve given up. I just ask that she keep the door closed so I don’t have to look at the chaos. I do a “sniff check” once in a while, to make sure that it doesn’t begin to smell like dead bodies in here.’ She was obviously startled by her own choice of words, but she kept on going. ‘Magnus couldn’t stand knowing what a mess things were in, but I persuaded him to leave her be. I was the same way as a kid, so I knew it would just lead to nothing but nagging and quarrels. In my case, I got neater as soon as I had my own flat, and I think the same thing will happen with Elin.’ She closed the door and pointed to the room at the end of the hall.
‘That’s our bedroom. I haven’t touched any of Magnus’s things.’
The first thing that Patrik noticed was that they had the same bed linen as he and Erica did. Blue-and-white check, bought at IKEA. Somehow that made him very uncomfortable. It made him feel vulnerable.
‘Magnus sleeps on the side next to the window.’
Patrik went over to his side of the bed. He would have preferred to look things over alone, in peace and quiet. Instead, it felt as if he were snooping around in things that were not his concern, and the feeling grew worse the longer Cia stood in the room staring at him. He had no idea what he was looking for. He just felt he needed to get closer to Magnus Kjellner, to see him as a real person, as flesh and blood, not merely a photograph on the wall in the police station. Patrik could still feel Cia’s eyes on his back, and finally he turned around to face her.
‘I hope you won’t be offended, but would you mind leaving while I have a look around?’ He sincerely hoped that she would understand.
‘I’m sorry. Of course,’ she said, smiling apologetically. ‘I realize it must be difficult to have me looking over your shoulder. I’ll go downstairs and take care of a few things, so you’ll have the place to yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ said Patrik. As soon as she left, he sat down on the edge of the bed and started with the bedside table. A pair of glasses, a stack of papers that turned out to be a copy of the manuscript of The Mermaid, an empty water glass, and a blister pack of paracetamol. That was all. Patrik pulled out the drawer and carefully studied what he found inside. Nothing of real interest. A paperback copy of Åsa Larsson’s detective novel Sun Storm, a little box containing ear plugs, and a package of cough drops.
Patrik got up and went over to the wardrobes that lined one entire wall of the bedroom. He laughed when he slid open the doors and instantly saw a clear example of what Cia had said about how her attitude towards neatness differed from that of her husband. The half of the wardrobe next to the window was a miracle of organization. Everything was carefully folded and arranged in wire baskets: socks, underwear, ties and belts. Above hung neatly pressed shirts and jackets along with polo shirts and T-shirts. T-shirts on hangers – the mere thought boggled Patrik’s mind. The most he ever did was to stuff his T-shirts into a drawer, only to curse the fact that they ended up looking so wrinkled when he put them on.
In that sense, Cia’s half of the wardrobe was more like his own method. Everything was haphazardly jumbled together, as if someone had simply opened the door and tossed everything inside before quickly shutting it again.
He closed the sliding doors and turned to look at the bed. There was something so heartbreaking and sad about a bed that had obviously only been slept in on one side. He wondered if anyone ever got used to sleeping in a double bed that was half empty. The thought of sleeping alone without Erica seemed impossible to him.
When Patrik went back down to the kitchen, Cia was putting away the plates they had used. She gave him an inquisitive look, and he said in a friendly tone of voice:
‘Thanks for letting me take a look around. I don’t know whether it will make any difference, but at least now I feel as if I know a little more about Magnus and who he was … is.’
‘That does make a difference. To me, anyway.’
Patrik said goodbye and left. He paused on the porch to look at the withered Christmas wreath hanging on the front door. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted it off. Considering what an orderly person Magnus was, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to see that old wreath still there.
Both kids were screaming at the top of their lungs. The sound bounced off the walls in the kitchen, and Christian thought his head was going to explode. He hadn’t slept well for several nights in a row. Thoughts kept whirling through his mind, round and round, as if he needed to analyse every single thought before he could move on to the next one.
He had even been thinking of retreating to the boathouse to sit down and write. But the silence of the night and the darkness outside would have given his phantoms free rein, and he didn’t have the strength to drown them out with the sentences he constructed. So he’d stayed where he was, staring up at the ceiling while hopelessness descended on him from all directions.
‘Stop that right now!’ Sanna pulled the boys apart as they fought over a packet of O’Boy which had somehow ended up a little too close to them. Then she turned to Christian, who was sitting at the table and staring into space, his sandwich uneaten on the plate, and his coffee untouched in the cup.
‘It would be nice if you could help me out a little!’
‘I didn’t sleep well,’ he replied, taking a sip of the cold coffee. He got up and dumped the rest in the sink before pouring himself a fresh cup and adding a dash of milk.
‘I’m fully aware that you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, and you know that I’ve supported you the whole time when you were working on your book. But there’s a limit, even for me.’ Sanna pulled the spoon out of Nils’s hand just as he was about to use it to bang his older brother on the forehead. She tossed it with a clatter into the sink. Then she took a deep breath, as if mustering her courage before pouring out everything that she’d been holding inside. Christian wished that he could press a pause button to stop her before she spoke. He simply couldn’t take any more right now.
‘I never said a word whenever you went straight from work to the boathouse and sat there writing all evening. I picked up the kids from day-care, cooked dinner, made sure they were fed, tidied up in the house, got them to brush their teeth, read them a story, and then put them to bed. I did all of that without complaint while you devoted yourself to your fucking creative efforts!’
Sanna’s last words dripped with a sarcasm that Christian had never heard from her before. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the criticism. But she went on relentlessly:
‘I think it’s fantastic that everything is going so well. That you got the book published, and that you seem to be a new star on the literary horizon. I think it’s great, and I don’t begrudge you any of it. But what about me? Where’s my place in all of this? Nobody sings my praises, nobody looks at me and says: “By God, Sanna, you’re amazing. Christian is a lucky man to have you.” That’s not something that even you say to me. You just take it for granted that I’ll slave away here at home, taking care of the kids and the house while you do what you “have to do”.’ She sketched two quotation marks in the air. ‘And it’s true. I do handle everything. And I gladly carry the load. You know how much I love taking care of the children, but that doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear. I’d at least like to receive a few words of thanks from you! Is that too much to ask?’
‘Sanna,
