The writing was going slowly. Words collected in his head but without forming into sentences. The cursor on the screen was annoying as it kept blinking at him. This book was proving much harder to write; it contained very little of himself. On the other hand, The Mermaid had contained too much. It surprised Christian that no one had noticed that. They had read the book as a story, a dark fantasy. His greatest fear had proved baseless. The whole time he had carried out the difficult but necessary work on the novel, he had struggled with the fear of what might happen when he lifted up the rock. What would crawl out when the light of day touched what was hiding underneath?

But nothing had happened. People were so naive, so used to being fed fictionalized accounts, that they couldn’t recognize reality even under the skimpiest of disguises. He looked at the computer screen again. Tried to summon forth the words, get back to what was truly a made-up story. It was like he’d told Erica: there was no sequel to The Mermaid. That story was over.

He had played with fire, and the flames had burned his feet. She was very close now; he knew that. She had found him, and he had only himself to blame.

With a sigh he turned off the computer. He needed to clear his mind. He threw on his jacket and zipped it up to his chin. Then he left the boathouse, and with his hands in his pockets he set off at a brisk pace for Ingrid Bergman Square. The streets were crowded and lively during the summer, but right now they were deserted. That actually suited him better.

He had no idea where he was going until he turned off at the wharf where the Coast Guard boats were docked. His feet had carried him to Badholmen, and the diving tower, which loomed against the grey winter sky. The wind was blowing hard. As he walked along the stone jetty that took him over to the little island, a strong gust seized hold of his jacket, making it billow like a sail. He found shelter between the wooden walls separating the changing booths, but as soon as he stepped out on to the rocks facing the tower, the wind again struck him full force. He stood still, allowing himself to be buffeted back and forth as he tilted his head back to stare up at the tower. It wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it definitely had a certain presence. From the uppermost platform, there was an impressive view of all of Fjällbacka and the bay opening on to the sea. And it still had a worn dignity about it. Like an old woman who had lived a long life, and lived it well, and wasn’t ashamed to show it.

He hesitated for a moment before moving forward to climb the first step. He held on to the railing with cold hands. The tower creaked and protested. In the summertime it withstood hordes of eager teenagers running up and down, but right now the wind was tearing at it with such force that he wasn’t sure it would even hold his weight. But that didn’t matter. He had to go up to the top.

Christian climbed higher. Now there was no doubt that the tower was actually swaying in the wind. It was moving like a pendulum, swinging his body from side to side. But he kept on going until he reached the top. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the platform and exhaled. Then he opened his eyes.

She was there, wearing the blue dress. She was dancing on the ice, holding the child in her arms, without leaving any tracks in the snow. Even though she was barefoot, just like on that Midsummer day, she didn’t seem to be cold. And the child was wearing light clothes, white trousers and a little shirt, but smiling in the wintry wind as if nothing could touch him.

Christian stood up, his legs unsteady. His eyes were fixed on her. He wanted to scream a warning. The ice was thin, she shouldn’t be out there, she shouldn’t be dancing on the ice. He saw the cracks, some of them spreading, some of them opening wide. But she kept on dancing with the child in her arms, her dress fluttering around her legs. She laughed and waved, and the dark hair framed her face.

The tower swayed. But he stood upright, countering the movement by holding out his arms to either side. He tried shouting to her, but only a raspy sound came out of his throat. Then he saw her. A soft white hand. It rose out of the water, trying to catch hold of the feet of the woman who was dancing, trying to grab her dress, wanting to drag her down into the deep. He saw the Mermaid. Her pale face that covetously reached for the woman and the child, reached for what he loved.

But the woman didn’t see her. She just kept on dancing, took the child’s hand and waved to him, moving her feet across the ice, sometimes only centimetres from the white hand trying to catch her.

Something flashed inside his head. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless. Christian pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. And then came the scream. Loud and shrill, it rose out of his throat, bouncing off the ice and the rocks below, ripping open the wound in his chest. When he stopped screaming, he cautiously took his hands away from his ears. Then he opened his eyes. The woman and the child were gone. But now he knew. She would never give up until she had taken everything that was his.

14

Alice still demanded so much. Mother devoted hours to training her, bending her joints, doing exercises with pictures and music. She had moved heaven and earth before she finally accepted the situation. Things were not as they should be with Alice.

But he no longer got so angry. He didn’t hate his sister, in spite of all the time she required from Mother. Because the look of triumph in her eyes was gone. She was calm and quiet. She mostly sat by herself, plucking at something, repeating the same movement for hours, staring out of the window or straight at the wall, looking at something only she could see.

And she did learn things. First how to sit up, then how to wriggle forward, finally how to walk. The same as other children. It just took longer for Alice.

Now and then Father would happen to look at him over her head. For a moment, just an instant, their eyes would meet, and there was something in Father’s expression that he couldn’t decipher. But he understood that Father was keeping watch over him, keeping watch over Alice. He wanted to tell Father that it wasn’t necessary. Why would he do anything to her, now that she was so nice?

He didn’t love her. He loved only Mother. But he tolerated her. Alice was now part of his world, a small part of his reality, in the same way as the TV set with its noise, the bed he crawled into at night, or the rustling of the newspapers that Father read. She was just as much a natural part of daily life, and she meant just as little.

Alice, on the other hand, adored him. He couldn’t understand it. Why had she chosen him instead of their beautiful mother? Alice’s face lit up whenever she saw him, and she would stretch out her arms to him, wanting to be picked up. Otherwise she didn’t like to be touched. She often recoiled and pulled away when Mother came near, wanting to caress her and hold her. He didn’t understand it. If Mother had wanted to touch him and caress him in that way, he would have crept into her embrace and closed his eyes, never wanting to leave.

Alice’s unconditional love for him was surprising. And yet it gave him a certain feeling of satisfaction that at least somebody wanted him. Sometimes he would test her love. On those few occasions when Father forgot to keep an eye on them and went to the toilet or out to the kitchen to get something, he would test how far her love extended. He would see how far he could go before the light in her eyes was extinguished. Sometimes he would pinch her, sometimes he would pull her hair. Once he had cautiously removed her shoe and scratched the sole of her foot with the little pocket knife he had found and always carried in his pocket.