Shame

tasks had always gone against the grain; it was easier to do them herself and avoid resentment. She always felt a need to compensate in some way if she asked them to do something, keep them in a good mood. But actually it was more about ensuring continued goodwill towards herself. So that nobody would think badly of her.
    In her role as a physician she had more self-confidence. If she hadn’t been regarded as highly skilled and goal-oriented, she never would have been offered the job four years ago. The clinic was under private management with a foundation as the primary shareholder, and to be offered a position as head surgeon was a clear endorsement. There were nine departments in the building, and she was the head of General Surgery. Even so, her leadership skills could definitely use some work, and in her former life, the one before she met Thomas, she would have thrown herself into the assignment wholeheartedly. Now it no longer felt so important. Thomas thought she was fine the way she was, despite all her shortcomings. Right now she just wanted to enjoy that feeling.
    Except that there was one shortcoming she hadn’t revealed yet.
    The nastiest, lowest of them all.

    She stood at the bus station and waited. Thomas had given her a lift there, and despite the fact that they had been urged to keep their phones turned off during the four-day workshop, she had promised to call him every night. Now she was sorry she hadn’t taken her own car. A woman she didn’t know had called and offered her a ride, saying she had got Monika’s name and number from course management. And why not? At least that’s what she thought when the matter first came up. Now she wished she could have the time to herself, that she could sit all by herself and enjoy the giddy feeling she was experiencing. Everything was suddenly transformed into a sense of warm, exhilarating anticipation. Things were perfect, she didn’t need anything else. If this was what they called happiness, then she suddenly understood all human striving for it.
    She looked at the clock. It was already eight-thirty and the woman had promised to pick her up at twenty past eight. It was almost 200 kilometres to the course venue, and if they didn’t get going soon they would arrive too late for the first session. She always prided herself on being punctual, and she felt a slight pang of annoyance.
    She turned round and glanced over at the newspaper kiosk. Involuntarily she scanned the placards with the headlines from the evening papers.
    ‘13- YEAR-OLD girl held as SEX SLAVE for three months.’
    And then its competitor alongside:
    ‘8 out of 10 diagnosed incorrectly. A COUGH can be a DEADLY DISEASE . Test whether you are affected.’
    She shook her head. One might almost imagine that the newspaper publishers were trained in neurophysiology. Appealing directly to their buyers’ primitive alarm systems was a foolproof method of catching their attention. It lay embedded deep inside the ur-brain, and as in all other mammals its purpose was to search its surroundings constantly for possible danger. The placards acted as one big warning signal. A potential threat that had arisen. But someone who was afraid needed to be informed why , not merely how , and especially not in disgusting detail. It wouldn’t put a stop to any fears; on the contrary, and consequently she suspected that the evening papers’ placards had a greater effect on the tenor of society than people realised. No one could avoid them, and what else could the readers do with all the fear that was constantly being forced upon them but hide it away in some nook and let it lie there, to be mixed with a suspicion of foreigners and a general feeling of hopelessness?
    The fact that people bought newspapers that used placards like this was the triumph of the primitive ur-brain over the intelligence of the cerebral cortex.

    A red van came driving at high speed from the direction of Storgatan, but she didn’t pay it much attention. Painted on the side was BÖRJE'S CONSTRUCTION in big letters. If she remembered correctly, the woman had introduced herself as Åse. The van slowed to a stop with the engine running. The woman behind the wheel was in her fifties and leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the side window.
    ‘Monika?’
    She grabbed the handle of her suitcase on wheels and walked towards the van.
    ‘I thought it might be you. Hi, I’m Monika.’
    The woman shifted back over to the