‘So say something!’

Christian gave a start. Sanna was leaning forward, spraying saliva as she shouted at him. Slowly he raised his arm to wipe off his face. Then she moved her face even closer and lowered her voice so she was almost whispering.

‘But I kept on looking. Everybody has something they don’t want to reveal. So what I want to know is…’ She paused, and he felt his skin prickling with alarm. She had a look of satisfaction on her face that was new and frightening. He didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want to play this game any longer, but he knew that Sanna would proceed relentlessly towards her goal.

She reached for something lying on one of the chairs on the other side of the kitchen table. Her eyes were shining with all the emotions that had been stored up during their years together.

‘What I want to know is, who does this belong to?’ Sanna said, holding up something blue.

Christian saw at once what it was. He had to fight his instinct to tear it out of her hands. She had no right to touch that dress! He wanted to tell her that, shout the words at her, and make her understand that she had crossed a line. But his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t utter a single word. He stretched out his hand for the blue fabric, which he knew would feel so soft against his cheek and which would rest so lightly in his hand. She took a step back, holding it out of reach.

‘Who does this belong to?’ Her voice was even lower now, barely audible. Sanna unfolded the dress and held it up in front of her, as if she were in a shop and wanted to see if the colour suited her.

Christian didn’t look at her; his eyes were fixed on the dress. He couldn’t bear to see it sullied by anyone else’s hands. At the same time, his brain was working in a surprisingly cold and methodical way. The two worlds, which he had so carefully kept separate, were about to collide, and he couldn’t reveal the truth. It could never be spoken aloud. Yet the best lie was always the one that held fragments of truth.

Suddenly he felt completely calm. He would give Sanna what she wanted. He would give her a small piece of his past. So he started talking, and after a while she sat down to listen to his story, although he told her only part of it.

Lisbet’s breathing was irregular. It had been months since she had slept in the double bed upstairs. Eventually her illness had made it impossible for her to manage the climb to the bedroom, so he’d fixed up the guest room on the ground floor for her. He’d made the small room as comfortable as possible, but no matter what he did, it was still the guest room. And this time the cancer was the guest. It occupied the room with its smell, its tenacity, and its portent of death.

Soon the cancer would leave them, but as Kenneth lay there listening to Lisbet’s halting breath, he wished that the guest would stay. Because it wouldn’t be leaving alone; it would take along the dearest person in his life.

The yellow scarf lay on the bedside table. He turned on his side, propped his head on his hand, and studied his wife in the faint light coming from the streetlights outside the window. He reached out his hand and gently caressed the downy fuzz on her head. She stirred uneasily, and he hastily withdrew his hand, afraid of waking her from the sleep that she needed so badly, though she seldom slept for more than a few hours at a time.

He couldn’t sleep close to her any more – not like they’d done in the past. It was something that they both had loved, and at first they had tried, moving close under the covers. He had put his arm around her the way he always had done, ever since their first night together. But the illness had robbed them of that joy too. It hurt her to be touched, and she had jerked away every time he nestled close. So he had set up a bed next to hers. The thought of not sleeping in the same room with her was unbearable. The thought of sleeping alone upstairs, in their bed, never even occurred to him.

He slept badly on the camp-bed. His back ached every morning, and his joints were always stiff. He’d considered buying a real bed to put next to hers, but he knew it would be pointless. Even though he didn’t like to think about it, he knew that soon there would be no more need for an extra bed. Soon he would be sleeping alone upstairs.

Kenneth blinked away his tears as he watched Lisbet’s breathing, shallow and strained. Her eyes moved under her lids, as if she were dreaming. He wondered what she saw in her dreams. Was she healthy? Was she running with the yellow scarf tied around her long hair?

He turned away. He had to try to get some sleep; he had a job to tend to, after all. For too many nights he had lain here, tossing and turning on the camp-bed and watching her, afraid to miss out on a single minute. Fatigue had settled over him, and it never seemed to let up.

He realized that he had to pee, so he might as well get up. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d relieved himself. With an effort, he turned over so he could sit up. His back creaked, and the camp-bed did too. He sat on the edge for a moment to stretch out his muscles, which were clenched up tight. The floor felt cold under his feet as he stood up and padded out to the hall. The bathroom was right next door, on the left, and he blinked in the glare when he switched on the light. He raised the toilet lid, pulled down his pyjama trousers, and shut his eyes as he felt the pressure ease.

Suddenly he noticed a draught on his legs. He opened his eyes and looked up. The bathroom door stood open, and it felt like an icy wind had blown in. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, but he wasn’t done pissing, and he didn’t want to miss the toilet. When he was finished, he shook off the last drops, pulled up his pyjama trousers and turned towards the doorway. It was probably just his imagination, because he didn’t feel the cold any more. Yet something told him to be wary.

The hall was dimly lit. The glow from the bathroom light reached only a short distance ahead of him, and the rest of the house was in darkness. Lisbet always used to hang Advent stars in the windows in November, and they stayed there until March because she loved the way they shone. But this year she hadn’t had the energy, and he had never got around to it either.

Kenneth tiptoed out into the entry. It wasn’t his imagination. The temperature was definitely lower here, as if the front door had stood open. He went over and tried the handle. Not locked. That wasn’t unusual, since he sometimes forgot to lock the door, even at night.

For safety’s sake, he now made sure the door was properly closed and then turned the lock. He was about to go back to bed, but he suddenly had goose bumps. Something didn’t feel right. He looked at the doorway leading to the kitchen, which was lit only by the faint light from the streetlamp outside. Kenneth squinted and took a step closer. There was something shiny white lying on the kitchen table, something that hadn’t been there when he cleared away the dishes before going to bed. He took a few more steps. Fear surged in waves through his body.

In the middle of the table he saw a letter. Another letter. And next to the envelope someone had carefully placed a kitchen knife. The blade gleamed in the glow of the streetlamp. Kenneth looked around, but he realized that whoever the intruder had been, he or she had now gone. Leaving behind a letter and a knife.

Kenneth wished that he understood what the message was intended to be.

11

She smiled at him. A big smile, no teeth, just gums. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to take and take until he no longer had anything left.

Suddenly he noticed the smell in his nostrils. That sweet, repulsive smell. It had been there back then, and it was here now. It must be coming from her. He looked down at the soft, shiny little body. Everything about her disgusted him. The plump belly, the notch between her legs, the hair that was dark and unevenly sprinkled over her head.