Камилла Лэкберг – The Drowning (страница 14)

‘Well, it’s just lucky that the newspapers haven’t got word of those threatening letters,’ said Anna.

‘Yeah, you’re right about that,’ replied Erica, and then changed the subject. But the uneasy feeling in her chest refused to leave her.

5

They were going on holiday, and he could hardly wait. He wasn’t really sure what it entailed, but the word sounded so promising. Holiday. And they would be taking the caravan that was parked outside.

He was never allowed to play in it. A few times he’d tried to peek through the windows, to see what was behind the brown curtains. But he could never actually see anything, and the caravan was always locked. Now the door stood wide open, so as to ‘give it a proper airing out’, as Mother said, and a bunch of cushions had been put in the washing machine to rid them of the smell of winter.

Everything seemed so unreal, like a fairy-tale adventure. He wondered if he’d be permitted to sit inside the caravan as they drove, like travelling inside a little house on wheels, headed for something new and unfamiliar. But he didn’t dare ask. Mother had been in a strange mood lately. That sharp, fierce tone in her voice was clearly audible, and Father had been taking more frequent walks, whenever he wasn’t hiding behind his newspaper.

Sometimes he’d noticed her staring at him oddly. There was something different about the way she looked at him, and it frightened him, even taking him back to the darkness that he’d left behind.

‘Are you just going to stand there gaping, or were you thinking of helping me out?’ Mother had her hands on her hips.

He gave a start when he heard once again that harsh tone and ran over to her.

‘Take these and put them in the laundry room,’ she said, tossing some foul-smelling blankets at him with such force that he almost lost his footing.

‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, and hurried into the house.

If only he knew what he’d done wrong. He always obeyed his mother. Never talked back, behaved properly, and never got his clothes dirty. Yet it was as if sometimes she couldn’t bear to look at him.

He’d tried to ask his father about this. Mustered his courage on one of the few occasions when they were alone and asked him why Mother didn’t like him any more. For a moment Father had put aside the newspaper to reply curtly that he was being foolish and he didn’t want to hear talk of such things again. Mother would be terribly sad if she ever heard him say that. He should be grateful that he had a mother like her.

He didn’t ask any more questions. Making his mother sad was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wished that she would be happy and that she would stroke his hair like she used to and call him her handsome little boy. That was all he wanted.

He put the blankets down in front of the washing machine and pushed aside all his gloomy, dark thoughts. They were going on holiday. In the caravan.

Christian drummed his pen on the top of the small table where he was sitting. Next to him was a big stack of copies of The Mermaid. He still couldn’t get enough of looking at the book. It seemed so unreal that his name was actually on the cover. The cover of a real book.

There wasn’t yet any rush to buy copies, and he didn’t think there would be. It was only authors like Liza Marklund and Jan Guillou who attracted large crowds. He was perfectly happy with the five copies that he’d signed so far.

Although he had to admit that he did feel a bit lost as he sat there. People hurried past, giving him curious looks, but they didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure whether he should say ‘Hello’ when he felt them staring at him or just pretend that he was busy with something else.

Gunnel, the owner of the bookshop, came to his rescue. She walked over and nodded at the stack of books.

‘Would you mind signing a few of those? It’s so nice to have signed copies to sell later.’

‘Sure. How many should I sign?’ asked Christian, happy to have something to do.

‘Hmm. Let’s say ten,’ replied Gunnel, straightening the stack, which had got a bit crooked.

‘That’s no problem.’

‘We did a proper amount of advertising for the book-signing,’ said Gunnel.

‘I have no doubt that you did,’ Christian told her with a smile. He could see that she was concerned he would think the meagre turnout could be blamed on the shop’s lack of PR for the event. ‘I’m not exactly a household name, so I didn’t have very high expectations.’

‘At least we’ve sold a few copies,’ she said kindly, heading back to the checkout counter.

He reached for a book, removed the cap on his pen, and began signing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that someone was standing in front of the table. When he looked up, he found a big, yellow microphone thrust in his face.

‘We’re here in the bookshop where Christian Thydell is signing his first novel, The Mermaid. Christian, your name is all over the newspaper placards today. How worried are you about the threats that have been levelled against you? Have the police been brought in?’

The reporter hadn’t yet introduced himself, but judging by the label on the microphone, he was from the local radio station. He was peering at Christian with an urgent expression on his face.

Christian felt his mind go blank. ‘The newspaper placards?’ he said.

‘Yes, you’re on GT’s placard. Haven’t you seen it?’ The reporter didn’t wait for Christian to reply but just repeated the question he’d asked initially. ‘Are you worried about the threats? Have the police provided special protection for you today?’

The reporter glanced around the shop, but then turned back to Christian, who was holding his pen above the book he’d been just about to sign.

‘I don’t know how –’ he stammered.

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve received threats while you were writing the book, and you passed out on Wednesday when another letter was delivered to you at the book launch.’

‘Er, yes, well …’ Christian could feel himself gasping for air.

‘Do you know who sent the threats? Do the police know?’ The microphone was again only about an inch from Christian’s mouth, and he had to restrain himself from shoving it away. He didn’t want to answer these questions. He had no idea how the press had found out about any of this. He thought about the letter in his jacket pocket. The letter that had come yesterday and that he’d managed to retrieve from the stack of post before Sanna discovered it.

Panic-stricken, he looked for some way to escape. He caught Gunnel’s eye, and she seemed to realize at once that something was wrong.

She came over to them and asked, ‘What’s going on here?’

‘I’m doing an interview,’ said the reporter.

‘Have you asked Christian whether he wants to be interviewed?’ She glanced at Christian, who shook his head.

‘He’s not interested.’ She fixed her eyes on the reporter, who had lowered the microphone. ‘And besides, Christian is busy. He’s signing books for our shop. So I’m going to ask you to leave him alone.’

‘Yes, but …’ the radio reporter began. Then he stopped. He pressed one of the buttons on his recording equipment. ‘We were unable to do a short interview because …’

‘Get lost,’ said Gunnel, and Christian couldn’t help grinning.

‘Thanks,’ he said after the reporter had left.

‘What was that all about? He seemed really determined.’

Christian’s feeling of relief that the reporter was gone quickly faded, and he swallowed hard before saying:

‘He claimed that my name was on the GT placard. I’ve received a few threatening letters, and apparently the press found out about it.’

‘Oh my.’ Gunnel looked first upset and then worried. ‘Would you like me to go out and buy you a copy of the newspaper so you can see what they wrote?’

‘Would you do that?’ he said, his heart pounding.

‘Sure, I’ll be right back.’ She gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder and left.

Christian sat motionless for a moment, staring into space. Then he picked up his pen and began writing his signature in the books as Gunnel had requested. After a while he realized he needed to go to the toilet. Since there were still no customers heading for his table, he didn’t think a brief absence would be noticed.

He hurried through the employees’ break room at the back of the bookshop. A few minutes later he was already on his way back to his post. He sat down at the table. Gunnel hadn’t yet returned with the newspaper, but he was steeling himself for what was to come.

Christian reached for his pen, but then looked with surprise at the books he was supposed to sign. Had he really left them lying on the table like that? They didn’t look the same as when he’d dashed off to the toilet, and he thought that maybe someone had taken the opportunity to swipe a copy while he was gone. Yet the stack didn’t look any smaller, so he decided he was just imagining things. He picked up the top copy and opened it to write a greeting to the reader.

The page was no longer blank. And the handwriting was all too familiar. She had been here.