Part 6 (1/2)

My cell phone rings as I'm walking back into my office. It's my oldest sister calling to remind me about my nephew's birthday. She sounds happy and tells me about her new job and an upcoming vacation, but when she finds out I'm still at work, I can hear in her voice that she's worried.

”But it's eight o'clock. How late are you going to be there?”

I laugh, dismissing her concern. ”Not a minute past nine, but unfortunately the patient files don't write themselves.”

”I thought you had a.s.sistants for stuff like that.”

I laugh again, louder this time. The thought of elf-like-presumably female-a.s.sistants flitting around the office with patient files ready for signature makes me laugh. Of course we do have Elin, but she can hardly keep track of the appointments. I don't even want to think about what would happen if she tried to transcribe my notes. Words like malpractice and disciplinary board pop into my head.

”Yes, please, one male a.s.sistant, maybe in his twenties. You know, before they get bitter and start refusing to go buy lattes and pick up my dry cleaning.”

I can tell she has a big smile on her face, even though I can't see her.

Naturally I stay until after nine. I scurry down the stairs. I don't like to spend any more time in dark stairwells than necessary, and I'm in a hurry to get home.

The wind that greets me when I open the door is, if possible, even icier than before. The constant hum of traffic on Gotgatan is like a blanket of noise on the cobblestones, always in the background but never really disruptive. I can make out the silhouettes of people moving aimlessly across Medborgarplatsen in the dense darkness, leaning into the cold wind.

To my right I see the Thai restaurant. Its purple neon sign flickers in the darkness, a lone bright spot in the night. A group of alcoholics are sitting on the steps in front of the Forsgrenska pool building, sharing a bottle.

I slowly walk toward the ATM, wrapping my gray scarf around my neck one more time in an attempt to stop the harsh autumn air from sneaking in under my thin coat.

I notice him almost immediately. His gait is unsteady and he's not wearing a jacket; he must be really cold. His hands are jammed down into the pockets of his worn jeans and he has a red knit hat on.

Discreetly, I try to steer clear of this guy-who is obviously high-and head toward the Thai restaurant. I stare down at the wet pavement as if transfixed by it, clutching my purse.

But it seems like he wants something from me. He stumbles over toward me, stands in my way before I can escape him in the dark.

In the end, I'm forced to look at him. His eyes are just as vacant as the black sky above us. He sways slowly back and forth and suddenly I'm worried he's going to keel over.

”C'you spare ten kronor for a hamburger?”

Suddenly I feel depressed. Junkies are getting younger and younger. I'm guessing this boy in the T-s.h.i.+rt isn't any older than fifteen. But however much it upsets me to see a kid on drugs, I'm equally scared of the dark, and of everything I know an addict in need of money is capable of, even if he's just a teenager.

I quickly dig around in my coat pockets. The left one is ripped. There's a hole in the cheap, flimsy material, in the bottom. No spare change. I start fumbling with the zipper on my purse. My fingers feel stiff and don't want to obey.

”Is this guy bothering you?”

I glance up, looking away from the skinny, s.h.i.+vering boy. At first I see only his silhouette in front of the lights on the front of Soderhallarna Shopping Center, then he gradually emerges from the background. He's tall and strong with a shaved head, a black down jacket, jeans, a tattoo that is visible through his s.h.i.+rt, some sort of gym bag in his hand. He must be some kind of mechanic or gym teacher or security guard. Despite his size and his appearance, he seems nice, sympathetic.

”No . . . He just wants a little money for a hamburger.”

”For a hamburger?” The man chuckles softly, as if he's heard the hamburger story several times before. He stuffs his hand into his jacket and pulls out a worn leather wallet. Takes out a wrinkly fifty-kronor note and hands it to the astonished kid, who looks like he can't believe his eyes. He s.n.a.t.c.hes the bill, glances up at the man, and mumbles thanks. Something lights up in the kid's eyes-a feeling, a thought-but then his face becomes blank and expressionless again. I get the impression that they must know each other somehow. There's something about the quick look they exchange, something about the way the boy s.n.a.t.c.hes the bill.

He stumbles off toward Bjorn's Tradgrd Park. The wind grabs at his T-s.h.i.+rt and blows it up over his stomach, but he doesn't react.

”Wait,” I call after him. ”Wait! Aren't you cold? Here, do you want my scarf?”

He turns around to look at me. Our eyes meet; a smile flashes over his pale lips.

”Thanks, but no way. It's b.u.t.t-ugly.”

The man laughs, throws up his hands in a gesture of resignation, and then turns toward me.

”Are you Siri?” he asks.

I'm so surprised that I just nod. How could he know who I am?

”I'm Henrik.” He holds his hand out to me and I take it automatically. I note that his hand is warm and feels strong. I still don't understand who he is; his name doesn't ring any bells; I don't recognize him. He's a stranger.

”You don't know who I am, I a.s.sume?” he says.

I still can't talk. I shake my head and s.h.i.+ver as a cold gust of wind blows through my thin coat.

”I think my ex-girlfriend is in some kind of group with you, a group for women who have been the victims of domestic violence.”

Suddenly I feel very alone in the big, dark square. Nothing Vijay said about the group or leading it prepared me for this.

”I can't comment on that, you'll have to understand. Confidentiality, you know.”

I try to look resolute. Project some sort of authority that I actually lack. The truth is I'm so scared, my legs can hardly hold me upright. The man who abused Kattis, the man she calls a psychopath, is standing in front of me in the dark at Medborgarplatsen.

”Sorry, I understand,” Henrik says. ”Obviously I understand. But if it should happen that Kattis, purely hypothetically, should be in some sort of treatment with you, then . . . I would want to talk to you.” He looks down at the ground, looks almost embarra.s.sed. ”And I get it that you can't respond to that either. And that you can't talk to me, am I right?”

”You're right.”

”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ambush you like this, but I figured you wouldn't talk to me if I called. I just wanted to . . .” He hesitates, looking for the right words. ”I think I want to explain. I want you to understand. Things aren't as straightforward as they may seem. I want you to hear my side too. Couldn't you just listen to me?”

”I . . . That's not possible. I can't talk to you, you have to understand,” I reply.

He laughs quietly, as if he thinks what I'm saying is funny, and looks out across the deserted square.

”I should have known,” he mumbles.

”What?”

He sighs deeply, sc.r.a.pes his shoe in the brownish-black mud on the ground. ”Forget it, I won't bother you anymore.” Then he slowly turns his ma.s.sive back to me.

”Wait, how do you know who I am? How do you know where I work?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder, seems surprised. As if he doesn't understand why I'm asking the question, doesn't think it's important. He slowly turns around to face me again.