Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

then at one of the daily morning meetings, Kihlgård just happened to mention that he had a boyfriend.
    Now Knutas saw the concern in Jacobsson’s eyes and he tried to smooth over what he’d just said.
    ‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s just home with the flu.’
    They were interrupted by Thomas Wittberg, who appeared in the doorway.
    ‘Hi. I just heard something interesting.’
    He stopped what he was going to say and grinned when he saw Jacobsson sitting on the visitors’ sofa.
    ‘Happy birthday, by the way. Or are we not supposed to congratulate you on joining the ranks of middle-aged women? You’re already looking more worn out.’
    Jacobsson glared at him and frowned. Wittberg was always taunting her about being ten years older than he was.
    ‘Get to the point,’ said Knutas impatiently. ‘We’ve got a meeting in five minutes.’
    ‘Viktor Algård was in the middle of divorce proceedings. They filed the documents with the district court a week ago.’

EVER SINCE LAST night, I’ve been preparing myself. It started at eight o’clock, after the
Rapport
programme was over. I watch the TV news every evening, even though I don’t care a wit about what happens in the world. But it’s the only thing I have left that gives me some sort of anchor in reality. Otherwise my life is nothing more than a pseudo-existence. One day follows the next in a steady stream; all of them look very much alike. I sit here in my self-imposed prison, and the furthest I have to walk is from the kitchen to the bathroom.
    I see only one other person, and today it’s once again time to do that. It means that I have to venture outside. And that requires preparation.
    Last night I rummaged about until I found some clothes that were presentable, clean and without any holes. I never think about such things when I’m alone. I placed them on a chair: underwear, socks, a shirt, jeans. Before I went to bed, I set three alarm clocks, each fifteen minutes apart, so that I’d be sure to wake up. Since I take sleeping tablets, I tend to sleep very soundly and I’m out for a long time.
    I put one alarm clock on the bedside table, one on the window ledge so I’d be forced to get up, and the third, which rings the loudest, I put in the kitchen so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.
    All three were set to give me plenty of time to wake up and carry out the obligatory morning ablutions required of normal people who do normal things. Such as venturing outside.
    This morning I took a shower and washed my hair, which was quite a feat , considering my condition. It takes an enormous effort for me to slip out of my sleep-warmed pyjamas and get into the shower. It never gets any easier. Yes, I wear pyjamas to bed, just as I did as a child. They’re my armour: against fear, evil spirits, and any malicious, sinister creature that might happen to enter my bedroom. Sometimes I lie there in the dark imagining that someone is inside the flat. There are plenty of nooks and cupboards and wardrobes to hide in. I live in the only occupied flat in the entire building. The rest are all offices. No, that’s wrong. There is one other residential flat on the same floor. But it belongs to a family who live abroad, somewhere in Saudi Arabia, I think. I don’t know when they’re coming back.
    That’s why the building is so quiet at night. Very quiet. Outside these walls, it’s a whole different matter. That’s where life in the city goes on.
    I’ve had my coffee and forced myself to eat two open cheese sandwiches on rye bread. Energy is required if I’m to manage the walk I have ahead of me. I always read while I eat. Right now I’m reading
The Red Room
by August Strindberg. It’s a book that I spent a brief period reading aloud for Pappa when he wanted to rest on Saturday afternoons. I remember that once my nose started to bleed. It left a red spot in the book that’s still visible today.
    A few days ago when I got out this book, which had been packed away for so long, a photograph fell from between the pages where it had been lying, forgotten. It was a picture of Pappa, taken in the boat out at the lake. He’s wearing shorts and a light blue shirt, smiling slyly at the camera. Wrinkling his nose at the sun the way he always used to do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of Pappa in which he’s really happy. He might make a face or smile, but he never laughed when anyone took his