The Stonecutter

‘It’s me.’ Patrik’s voice had an empty sound to it, and Erica was instantly uneasy.

When he entered the living room she was even more concerned. His face was grey, and his eyes had a dead expression that didn’t vanish until he caught sight of Maja, still asleep in Erica’s arms. With two long strides he came over to them, and before Erica could react he had swept up the sleeping baby, pressing her hard to his chest. He didn’t even stop when Maja woke up from the shock of being picked up so abruptly and started shrieking as loud as she could.

‘What are you doing? You’re scaring Maja!’

Erica tried to take the screaming baby from Patrik to calm her down, but he fended off her attempt and just hugged the infant even harder. Maja was now screaming hysterically, and for lack of any better idea Erica slapped him on the arm and said, ‘Stop that! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see that she’s terrified?’

Then Patrik seemed to snap out of it. He cast a confused look at his daughter, who was bright red in the face from anger and fright.

‘Sorry.’ He handed Maja over to Erica, who did her best to soothe the baby. After a few minutes she succeeded, and Maja’s screams gave way to low sobbing. Erica looked at Patrik, who had sat down on the sofa and was staring out at the storm.

‘What’s happened, Patrik?’ said Erica, now in a kinder tone. She couldn’t prevent a hint of uneasiness from creeping into her voice.

‘We got a report of a drowned child today. From here in Fjällbacka. Martin and I took the call.’ He paused, unable to go on.

‘Oh my God, what happened? Who was it?’

Then her thoughts began whirling until they all fell into place at once, like tiny puzzle pieces.

‘Oh my God,’ she repeated. ‘It’s Sara, isn’t it? Charlotte was supposed to come over for coffee this afternoon, but she never showed up and there was no answer when I rang her at home. That’s it, isn’t it? It was Sara you found, right?’

Patrik could only nod. Erica sank into the easy chair to prevent her legs from buckling under her. Before her she could see Sara jumping on their living room sofa as recently as two days ago. With her long red hair flying about her head and laughter bubbling up inside her like an unstoppable primal force.

‘Oh my God,’ Erica said again, putting her hand to her mouth as she felt her heart sink like a stone to her stomach. Patrik just stared out of the window, and she saw in profile his jaw clenching tight.

‘It was so horrible, Erica. I haven’t seen Sara that many times, but seeing her lying there in that boat, totally lifeless … I kept picturing Maja in my mind. Since then my thoughts have been churning round in my head. I can’t stop imagining if something like that happened to Maja. And then having to tell Charlotte what happened …’

Erica uttered a whimpering, tormented sound. She had no words to describe the depth of the sympathy she felt for Charlotte, and Niclas too. She understood at once Patrik’s reaction, and found herself holding Maja even closer. She was never going to let her go. She would sit here holding her tight, keeping her safe, for ever. But Maja squirmed restlessly, intuiting as most children can that things were not as they should be.

Outside the storm continued to rage. Patrik and Erica just sat there for a long time, watching the wild play of nature. Neither of them could stop thinking about the child who was taken by the sea.

Medical examiner Tord Pedersen began the task with an unusually resolute expression on his face. After many years in his profession he had developed a hardened attitude – either desirable or loathsome, depending on how one wanted to view it – which meant that most of the ghastly things he observed in his work left little trace at the end of the day. But there was something about cutting open a child that conflicted with primal instinct and disrupted all routine, undermining the objective professionalism that his years as a medical examiner had given him. The defencelessness of a child tore down all the defensive walls that his psyche could put up, so his hand shook a bit as he moved it towards the girl’s chest.

When she was brought in he had been told that drowning was the presumed cause of death. Now it was up to him to confirm or reject that hypothesis. But so far there was nothing he could see with the naked eye to contradict it.

The mercilessly bright glare in the post-mortem room emphasized her blue pallor so that it looked like she was freezing. The aluminium table beneath her seemed to reflect the cold, and Pedersen shivered in his green scrubs. She was naked as she lay there, and he felt as though he were violating her as he prized open and cut into the defenceless body. But he forced himself to shake off that feeling. He knew that the task he was performing was important, both for the girl and her parents, even if they didn’t realize it themselves. It was necessary for the grieving process to have a final determination of the cause of death. Even though there didn’t seem to be any ambiguities in this case, the rules were in place for a reason. He knew this on a professional level, but as a human being and father with two boys at home, he sometimes wondered in cases like this how much humanity there was in the work he was doing.

STRÖMSTAD 1923

‘Agnes, I have nothing but tedious meetings today. It’s not a good idea for you to come along.’

‘But I want to go with you today. I’m so bored. There’s nothing to do.’

‘What about your girlfriends?’

‘They’re all busy,’ Agnes replied, sulking. ‘Britta’s getting ready for her wedding, Laila’s going to Halden with her parents to visit her brother, and Sonja has to help her mother.’ In a sad voice she added, ‘Imagine having a mother to help …’ She peered at her father from under her fringe. Yes, the ploy had worked, as usual.

He sighed. ‘Well then, come along if you like. But you have to promise to sit still and be quiet, and not run about like a whirlwind talking to the staff. The last time you completely confused those poor old men; it took them several days to get over it.’ He couldn’t help smiling at his daughter. She was unruly, certainly, but a more dazzling girl could not be found on this side of the Norwegian border.

Agnes gave a happy laugh, having once again emerged victorious, and she rewarded her father with a hug and a pat on his big belly.

‘Nobody has a father like mine,’ she cooed, and August Stjernkvist chuckled with pleasure.

‘What would I do without you?’ he said half in earnest, half in jest, pulling her close.

‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘No, not at the moment, anyway,’ he said sombrely, caressing her dark hair. ‘But it won’t be long before some man is going to come and steal you away from me. If you can find one who’s good enough, that is,’ he laughed.

‘Well, I can’t just take any man who comes along,’ Agnes laughed in reply. ‘Not with the example I’ve had. So it’s no wonder I’m particular.’

‘Look here, my girl, enough flattery,’ August preened. ‘Get a move on if you’re coming with me to the office. It wouldn’t do for the boss to arrive late.’

Despite his admonishing words it took almost an hour before they were on their way. First there was the whole business of tending to her hair and clothes, but by the time Agnes was ready, her father had to admit that the result was worth it.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ said August as he swept into the room where three men were sat waiting. ‘But I hope you’ll forgive me when you see the reason for my tardiness.’ He gestured towards Agnes, who was close behind him. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her body, accentuating her slim waist. Although many girls had let their hair fall to the scissors in a bob, as was the fashion in the twenties, Agnes had been smart enough to resist the temptation. Her thick black hair was done up in a simple chignon at her neck. She was well aware of the impression she made, thanks to the mirror at home. Now she exploited it fully as she paused in front of the men, slowly removing her gloves, and then letting them shake her hand, one by one.

With great satisfaction she could tell she was having an effect. Two of them sat there gaping like fish, as they held on to her hand a trifle too long. But the third man was different. To her astonishment Agnes felt her heart give a leap. The big, burly man hardly looked up at her and only took her hand briefly. The hands of the other two men had felt soft and almost feminine against hers, but this man’s hand was different. She could feel the calluses scraping against her palm, and his fingers were long and strong. For a moment she considered not letting go of his hand, but she caught herself and merely nodded to him demurely. His eyes, which only looked into hers fleetingly, were brown, and she guessed there was Walloon blood in his family.

After the introductions, she hurried to sit down on a chair in the corner and clasped her hands in her lap. She could see that her father hesitated for a moment. He probably would rather have sent her out of the room, but she put on her most angelic expression and gave him an entreating look. As usual he did as she wished. Wordlessly he nodded that she could stay. She decided for a change to sit as quiet as a little church mouse so as not to risk being sent out of the room like a child. She didn’t want to be subjected to that sort of treatment in front of this man.

Normally, after an hour of silent participation she would have been almost in tears from boredom, but not this time. The hour flew past, and by the time the meeting was over, Agnes was sure of her cause. She wanted this man, more than she had ever wanted anything else.

And what she wanted, she usually got.

4

‘Shouldn’t we visit Niclas?’ Asta implored her husband. But she saw no sign of sympathy in his stony expression.

‘I told you his name must never be mentioned in my house again!’ Arne stared hard out of the kitchen window, and there was nothing but granite in his gaze.

‘But after what happened to the girl …’

‘God’s punishment. Didn’t I tell you that would happen someday? No, this is all his own fault. If he’d listened to me it would never have happened. Nothing bad happens to God-fearing people. And now we shall speak no more of this!’ His fist slammed the table.

Asta sighed to herself. Of course she respected her husband, and he did usually know best, but in this case she wondered if he might not be wrong. Something in her heart told her that this couldn’t be consistent with God’s wishes. Surely they should rush to their son’s side when such a terrible blow had struck him. True, she had never got to know the girl, but she was still their own flesh and blood, and children did belong to the kingdom of God, that’s what it said in the Bible. But these were only the thoughts of a lowly woman. Arne was a man, after all, and he knew best. It had always been that way. Like so many times before, she kept her thoughts to herself and got up to clear the table.

Too many years had passed since she had seen her son. They did run into each other occasionally, of course; that was unavoidable now that he had moved back to Fjällbacka, but she knew better than to stop and talk to him. He had tried to speak to her a few times, but she always looked away and walked off briskly, as she had been instructed to do. But she hadn’t cast down her eyes quickly enough to avoid seeing the hurt in her son’s eyes.

Yet the Bible said that one should honour one’s father and mother, and what had happened on that day so long ago was, as far as she could see, a breach of God’s word. That’s why she couldn’t let him back into her heart.

She gazed at Arne as he sat at the table. His back was still as straight as a fir tree, and his dark hair had not thinned, in spite of a few flecks of grey. But they were both over seventy. She remembered how all the girls had run after him when they were young, but Arne had never seemed the least bit interested. He had married her when she was just eighteen, and as far as she knew he had never even looked at another woman. Not that he had been particularly keen on carnal matters at home either. Asta’s mother had always said it was a woman’s duty to endure that aspect of marriage. It was not something to enjoy, so Asta had considered herself fortunate since she had no great expectations.

Nevertheless, they did have a son. A big, splendid, blond boy, who was the spitting image of his mother but had few traits from his father. Maybe that was why things had gone so wrong. If he’d been more like his father, then Arne might have had more of a connection with his son. But that was not to be. The boy had been hers from the start, and she had loved him as much as she could. But it wasn’t enough. Because when the decisive day arrived and she was forced to choose between the boy and his father, she had let her son down. How could she have done otherwise? A wife must stand by her husband, she had been taught that since childhood. But sometimes, in bleak moments, when the lamp was off and she lay in bed looking up at the ceiling, the thoughts would come. She would wonder how something she had learned to be right could feel so wrong. That was why it was such a relief that Arne always knew exactly how things should be. Many times he had told her that a woman’s judgement was not to be trusted; it was the man’s job to lead the woman. There was security in that. Since her father had been like Arne in many ways, a world in which the man decided was the only world she knew. And he was so smart, her Arne. Everyone agreed on that.

Even the new pastor had praised Arne recently. He had said that Arne was the most reliable sexton he had ever had the privilege to work with, and God could be grateful to have such loyal servants. Arne had told her this, swelling with pride, when he had come home. But it was not for nothing that Arne had been the sexton in Fjällbacka for twenty years. Not counting the unfortunate years when that woman was the pastor here, of course. Asta would not want those years back for anything in the world. Thank goodness the woman finally understood that she wasn’t wanted, and stepped aside to make way for a real pastor. How poor Arne had suffered during that woman’s tenure. For the first time in more than fifty years of marriage, Asta had seen her husband with tears in his eyes. The thought of a woman in the pulpit of his beloved church had almost destroyed him. But he’d also said that he trusted that God would finally cast the moneylenders out of the temple. And this time, too, Arne was right.

Her only wish was that he could somehow find room in his heart to forgive his son for what had happened. Until then, she would never again have a day of happiness. But she also realized that if Arne could not forgive Niclas now, after this terrible incident, there was no hope of reconciliation.