‘Here,’ he said, handing her an Easter napkin. ‘Blow your nose.’ Then he sat down next to her again.
‘You know, to be perfectly honest,’ Thomas said, ‘killing them might not be such a bad thing.’
Annika jerked her head up. He gave her a wan smile.
‘I’m a social worker,’ he continued. ‘I’ve worked for Social Services for seven years now. There isn’t much I haven’t seen. You’re not unique.’
She blinked.
‘Women can end up spending their lives in hell,’ he said. ‘In my opinion, you shouldn’t feel guilty. It was self-defence. It was too bad you met a loser like that. How old were you when you started seeing each other?’
‘Seventeen,’ Annika said in a whisper. ‘Seventeen years, four months, and six days old.’
Thomas caressed her cheek.
‘Poor Annika,’ he said. ‘You deserve better.’
In a flash she was in his arms, her cheek resting against his chest, hearing his heart pound as his arms circled her. She put her own arms around his waist and held him, so warm and big.
‘How were you able to move on?’ he whispered into her hair.
She closed her eyes and listened to his heart, pulsating with life, throbbing.
‘Chaos,’ she said, her face burrowed into his chest. ‘At first everything was just pure chaos. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, couldn’t eat. I was numb, everything was . . . a white-out. Then it hit me, everything came crashing down at once, I thought I was going to go to pieces, nothing worked. I didn’t dare sleep, the nightmares would never end. Finally I had to be admitted to a hospital for a few days. That was when my parole officer made me start seeing a therapist . . .’
Thomas smoothed her hair and stroked her back.
‘Who took care of you?’
Ever so gently.
‘My grandmother,’ Annika replied. ‘I stayed with my grandmother that whole first year as soon as I had time off. I walked in the woods a lot, talked a lot, cried an awful lot. Gran was always there, she was incredible. The chaos receded, but afterwards there wasn’t anything left. Everything was empty and cold. Meaningless.’
Thomas rocked her a little, breathing in the scent of her hair.
‘How do you feel now?’
She swallowed.
‘Gran’s ill, and that’s so scary. She’s had a stroke. I’ve been thinking about taking a leave of absence and looking after her. It’s the least I can do.’
‘But how are
you
doing?’ he asked.
Squeezing her eyes shut to keep from crying, Annika whispered: ‘So-so. I have a hard time eating, but it’s getting better. Apart from this business with Gran, I’m doing all right. I’m glad I met you.’
The words words popped out. Thomas’s caresses ceased.
‘You are?’ he said.
Annika nodded into his chest. He let go of her and looked at her, into her dark eyes, fathoming their depths and seeing the sorrow there. She met his gaze, so blue, stroked his cheek and kissed him. He hesitated momentarily, then responded, kissing, licking, sucking on her lips . . .
Annika pulled off her sweater, her breasts bouncing into view, the gold chain dancing, no bra. Fascinated, Thomas stared at them; they were so big. He cupped one in his hand. It was very warm and soft. She took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, uncovering a smooth chest, solid, not much hair, and kissed his shoulder, nipping at him until he moaned. He kissed her neck, traced her lower jaw with his tongue, found her ear lobe, nibbled, sucked and licked on it. Her hands slid up his back, raking him gently and quickly in circles with her nails. Then they stopped, looked into each other’s eyes and acknowledged the emotion, the common intent there, revelled in it, let it grow until it toppled them and they tore off their clothes and became a tangle of hands, lips, tongues, breasts, bellies, genitals, arms, feet . . .
Thomas lay down on the couch, his feet dangling over the sides, and Annika eased herself on top of him, enveloping him. She felt him press home, fill her, possess the space she’d almost forgotten. He felt her warmth, the pressure, the pulse, and wanted to get moving, but she said: ‘Wait.’
They looked into each other’s eyes again, saw the all-encompassing excitement there and were sucked in by it. Suddenly Thomas felt dizzy, a state of complete and utter ecstasy. He closed his eyes, threw his head back and screamed. Annika began to ride him, slowly. He wanted to hurry her up but she held him in check – he gasped, moaned, cried out and thought he was going to disintegrate.
She looked at him, matching his tremendous desire, allowing his member to slide into her so slowly that their souls joined too, deep, as far as it could go, over and over, and over again, until they had release and the wave enveloped them. She felt the warmth run down her thighs. His body went rigid, every single muscle knotted, semen pumping. She collapsed on top of him, he embraced her, still inside her and stroked her hair. They were covered in sweat, all shiny and slippery. Her nose was by his clavicle, she breathed in his scent, strong and slightly sour.
‘I think I love you,’ Annika whispered and looked up at him. Thomas kissed her and they started moving against each other again, first gently, carefully, then faster and faster; so wet, so slick.
Thomas woke because he was cold. One foot had gone numb – Annika was lying on it, her breathing deep and regular, and he realized that she was asleep.
‘Annika,’ he whispered, smoothing her hair. ‘Annika, I’ve got to get up.’
She woke, startled, gave him a dazed look and smiled.
‘Hello,’ she whispered.
‘Hello,’ he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ve got to get up,’ he repeated
She lay still for a second.
‘Right,’ she said, and got up stiffly, pulling him from the couch.
They stood facing each other, naked and sweaty, she half a head shorter than him, and kissed. Standing on tiptoe, she wound her arms around his neck. He felt her breasts, so remarkably soft press against his ribs.
‘I’ve got to go home,’ Thomas whispered.
‘Yes, but not yet. Let’s sleep for a while.’
Annika led him by the hand to her bedroom. The bed, a box-spring one without a headboard, was unmade. She sank down on it and pulled him close.
They made love again.
The building was a colossus, dark and forbidding. Ratko stared up at its brick façade and saw the street lights reflected in the windows. His mouth was dry.
Why had they summoned him in the middle of the night? Something bad was afoot.
Cars whizzed past behind Ratko as he slowly approached the main entrance, went around the corner and saw the fleet of official vehicles: a spot for the consul, a spot for the ambassador. He went up to the door and knocked swiftly.
The fat man opened the door.
‘You’re late,’ he said, then turned his back on Ratko and waddled back inside.
Ratko followed the fat man up the few stairs leading to the large room, the waiting room, and was immediately transported back to Belgrade: Eastern Bloc green walls, grey plastic chairs. The counter straight ahead, the glass wall to the left, he could detect the light in the consul’s room.
‘Why was I summoned here?’ Ratko asked.
The fat man pointed to the door next to the glass wall.
‘Sit down and wait,’ he said.
Ratko walked through the room, navigating past the table and chairs, and went down the narrow corridor where the fat man had his desk. He entered the reception area that looked the same as always: chairs lined up against the wall, a couch, bookcases, a map of Yugoslavia before its partition. He considered taking a seat, but remained standing. Whenever he had been here before the circumstances had been pleasant, or at least friendly. Now things were different. He couldn’t sit down: that would put him at a disadvantage when his superiors walked in.
The table bore marks from bottles of slivovitz, and suddenly Ratko became aware of how damn thirsty he was. Vodka, straight up, cold, no ice. He swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips.
Where the hell were they? What were they up to? They really had him by the balls and he didn’t like the feeling.
Ratko took a few steps and glanced out towards the corridor. Several men, some he’d never seen before, all wearing identical poorly fitting brown suits – what the hell was going on? He stole back into the room quickly without a sound. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead: he knew who these men were – RDB officials from Belgrade. What were they doing here? Were they here because of him?
‘You can go in and see the consul now.’
Ratko went back out into the hall, passed the fat man and entered the next room. The unfamiliar men took no notice of him.
‘Ratko,’ the consul said. ‘There’s a flight to Skopje with a change at Vienna tomorrow at seven a.m. Our people will pick you up at the airport. You will leave at once.’
Ratko stared at the bald little man who was fingering some documents on his desk. What the hell was going on here?
‘Why?’
‘We’ve had some bad news from the Hague.’
The threat took hold.
Damn it all to hell – the war tribunal.
‘Tomorrow at twelve noon they will be issuing a warrant charging you with war crimes.’
The sweat stinging on his body, Ratko swallowed. All these men, how were they involved?
The consul tapped the papers into a tidy little stack against the desktop, got up and went around to the other side of the desk.
‘We’ve arranged new papers for you,’ he said. ‘Our visitors have been drawing them up all night. You need to sign them and have your picture taken, then they’re done.’
Slowly, Ratko’s mind shifted into gear.
‘But isn’t that kind of information confidential until it’s officially released?’ he said. ‘How did you find out about this?’
The consul came up to him. He was a full head shorter than Ratko and his eyes were expressionless. He wasn’t happy to be doing this.
‘We just know,’ he said. Once you’ve received your new passport, you have to leave the country – tonight. You’ll be leaving by way of Gardemoen in Oslo.’
Ratko wanted to relax, have some vodka, make sense of things. He wouldn’t be safe by lunchtime, he’d be in the air somewhere between Vienna and Macedonia, and it would take several more hours to get from Skopje to Belgrade.
‘If you make it in time, you won’t be able to leave Serbia for the foreseeable future,’ the consul added. ‘I presume you don’t have any unfinished business here?’
Ratko swallowed and stared at the consul.
‘Your new passport will be a Norwegian one. Your name is Runar Aakre. We hope your papers will stand the test until you’ve crossed the border.’
It appeared to be the sign for the unknown men in the room to approach him. Everyone had their task and time was of the essence.
TUESDAY 6 NOVEMBER
T
he house was dark, an ominous presence by the sea. Thomas swallowed, knowing that Eleonor was awake. Somewhere in that darkness, she was waiting. Never before had he been gone like this, not once in sixteen years.
He closed the car door carefully, the blipping sound of the lock ricocheting off the surrounding houses. He took three deep breaths, closed his eyes and tried to sort out his feelings.
The young woman he had just left asleep in bed remained with him like a huge warm presence. Christ, he had never felt like this before. This was for real. She was incredible, so real, so alive.
Annika.
Her name had reverberated inside Thomas the whole way from downtown Stockholm to Vaxholm. The course he would take had materialized during this dark ride; it was the obvious thing to do.
He would be honest. He would tell Eleonor everything, come clean. Their marriage was dead, she would have to realize that. He wanted to live with her, the other woman, lead a new life, have a different existence. He didn’t want a divorce because of Annika, she was simply the one who had triggered this step.
Thomas walked up to the house, relieved to be able to act on his decision. The frozen lawn crackled under his shoes.
It would be tough, but Eleonor would get over it. She could keep the house. He didn’t want it. On the other hand, she would have to buy him out: the profit they had made when real-estate prices went up wasn’t hers alone.
She stood in the hall, in a pink robe, her face pale with rage.
‘Where have you been?’
Thomas dropped his briefcase on the floor, hung up his coat and turned the light on. Eleonor screamed.
‘What happened? What’s happened to you?’
She rushed over to him and traced the stitches on his forehead with her fingers. He backed away and caught her hand.
‘That hurts,’ he explained.
She folded him in her arms, pressed up against him and started to cry, then looked up at him and stroked his hair.
‘Oh, I’ve been so worried. What happened, what have you done?’
Thomas avoided making eye contact with her and pushed her away, not wanting to feel her body, the hard bra cups beneath her robe.
‘I’ve got to go to bed,’ he said. ‘I’m exhausted.’
He walked around her and headed for the bedroom. She grabbed his arm, pulling him back.
‘Well, tell me!’ Eleonor cried, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘What happened? Have you been in an accident?’
Thomas saw her, so close to falling apart: her hair all mussed, her face tracked with tears. She searched for words, couldn’t find them and stood there, paralysed.
She took a step closer, her lips colourless.
‘Don’t you understand how frightened I’ve been?’ she whispered. ‘What if I had lost you, what would I do?’
Eleonor closed her eyes and continued to cry, the tears still streaming from her eyes. Thomas stared at her: he’d never seen her as upset as this, his wife, the woman he had promised to love and cherish until death did them part.
‘If something had happened to you, I would have died,’ she said, opening her eyes and gazing into his.
Guilt hit him full force, threatening to suffocate him. Christ, what had he done, Lord, what was the matter with him?
He folded her in his arms, held her tight, stroked her hair and she cried all over his shirt, cried like the other woman had cried . . .