The badger, p.12
The Badger, page 12
“There is one thing I know you can do though,” he said eventually. “Check out that company publishing the book. Someone there might know something.”
“I will,” she said.
27
FRIDAY 20 MAY
At first I didn’t know what they wanted, why they chose me of all people. I tried to ignore them, to pretend they weren’t real, just like you usually do. But they refused to go away. You know what it’s like. You’ve heard them, too.
I am the Badger was released on 20 May. The reviews in the press were scheduled for 24 May, timed appropriately just before payday. Linda’s plan to market the book succeeded beyond all expectations. The leaks they had put in place bore fruit and the buzz around the book eventually became unstoppable. Following the first of the media coverage in February, exclusively for Rapport television news and the tabloid paper Expressen, interest was growing day by day. Social media was boiling over with speculation. Had Jan Apelgren actually written the book? What had really happened to him? Some people claimed he had gone underground to interview the Badger, others even believed the Badger himself had put pen to paper.
In the midst of this media frenzy, pre-orders of the first edition had secured every copy even before the books could be packed ready for delivery. The subsequent print run was the largest Eklund Press had ever commissioned. The company hosted a lavish launch party at Hotel Post, where they had hired sections of the basement vaults. Celebrities drank champagne and went home with copies of the book which, instead of being signed, had a clod of damp earth mashed on the inside of the cover. It was a complete success – and it was just the beginning.
The reviews described the book as nail-biting and addictive, gruesomely realistic containing elements of supernatural horror. The only thing the critics lamented was that Apelgren would evidently never write again. Having proved there was more to him than his Turwall series, readable though it was, they were thirsty for more. As were his readers. With I am the Badger flying off the shelves, the demand for both of the author’s earlier thrillers multiplied and Eklund Press was able to publish hardback anniversary editions.
At the same time Annika was being interviewed on the sofa of more daytime television shows than she ever thought existed. She was a guest on the TV4 network, appeared on national morning radio, an evening television magazine show, a literature talk show and endless podcasts and web interviews. She was even interviewed in the journal The Lawyer, over the legalities which were making it possible for the company to release a manuscript from a supposedly dead writer.
Overnight, Eklund Press found itself struggling with a new problem. How were they supposed to find time to issue more copies fast enough? Meanwhile, several well-known actors were lining up to record the audio book. Domestic success in Sweden resulted in publishing houses in other countries outbidding each other for the rights to publish the book. From being on the verge of bankruptcy, Eklund Press was soaring like a shining star, thanks to a book which Annika Granlund quite literally reclaimed from the dead.
The company executives couldn’t be more grateful. They rewarded Annika with bonuses and a substantial wage increase. The money Annika and Martin budgeted to finding their house had grown considerably. For Annika, it was as if the cloud cover above Gothenburg had broken and the sun, warm and golden, was glowing in her face. The only person who didn’t see any of the money was the writer. On the advice of their accountant, the company set aside funds in their ledgers for notional outstanding royalties, just in the event of him actually presenting himself. But no one thought they would ever have to pay anything out.
Annika did her best not to think about Apelgren, even though avoiding the subject wasn’t always possible. She was asked the question about him at each interview. Of course, Jan Apelgren could take all of the credit. It was his book, they just weren’t able to publish it before he had been declared dead. No, there was no chance he could be alive. And though it was very sad, the good thing in all of it was that there were no heirs, his will was simply the company’s gain. There were solely winners in this good news story.
In those moments she was uttering those words which she had learned by heart, Annika was convinced that what she was saying was true. Her media training had convinced her of it so successfully. It was only right and proper.
All the same, she lay awake each night in a sweat, her mouth and throat both parched. As soon as she closed her eyes, she heard scraping sounds which kept her awake until the alarm went off. While she was lying there, taut as a bow before the arrow is released, staring up at the ceiling, the same question would spin round and round inside her head.
If Jan Apelgren really was dead, then who had left the manuscript outside the company’s door?
ACT 2
THE HOUSE
28
SUNDAY 18 OCTOBER, SIX YEARS EARLIER
The sounds kept me up at night. Maybe they wanted me to be awake, because it made me see the woman I had chosen as my life partner was coming home later and later.
“They haven’t lifted a finger for a week now.”
Jan Apelgren attempted to look directly at his wife across the dinner table. Her steely blue eyes were colder than usual. Her pupils were no larger than pinheads, despite the fact that the only light was coming from the candles on the table. As soon as she had driven the enormity of this home to him, she continued filing her nails. The scraping sounds made him shudder. The leftover sauce on her plate was being covered in a fine, white dust. Jan was convinced he would suffocate from breathing in acrylic residues from her nail enhancements.
“You’re going to have to give their boss a call or something. We can’t have this, it should be done by now.”
They, who Therese Apelgren was talking about, were the ground workers who had been occupying the front of the house with their equipment and pallets of materials. Three men in high-vis yellow overalls and a mechanical digger who were supposed to be relaying the drains at their 1970s split-level house. It had been left to the last minute – there were already dark patches of fungal growth where the damp had started to permeate the basement walls. But right now, nothing was happening. They had simply stopped working one morning, and never came back.
At first he thought it wasn’t a bad thing. It was difficult to focus on his work with the diesel engine from the digger bellowing laboriously outside, like a mechanical prehistoric monster. Now and then there would be scraping and fierce thumping as the bucket on the digger was pulled along the concrete, and sometimes he would hear the sound of the workers’ voices making their way in to him. But now he agreed with her. Outside, the garden looked like something from the trenches of the First World War. Excavated material had been deposited across the lawn like cowpats. A drainage channel was running around the concrete foundations on the same side as the front entrance up the slope. The builders had nailed some boards together, laying them across the pit like a gangway to the front door.
They couldn’t allow it to go on like this for long.
He felt a lump in his throat and swallowed it down with wine. He imagined himself imbibing the micro particles from Therese’s nails with the alcohol. The unpleasant mixture was sinking down into the empty space inside him where his anguish had made its home. This agony had come about after he had sent his draft to the publishers. His sense of doubt was growing by the day. Annika had merely responded to his email with a short “thanks”. This was several weeks ago now. Part of him was hoping for a rejection to free him from the expectation of writing more Turwall books, but only the part of him that didn’t have to deal with his financial situation.
At the same time a different concern was brewing. Therese was a corporate counsel and worked more than most. He was used to her coming home late, she had done so all the time they had been together. He knew that deep down she wished she didn’t need to, but her late nights at the office were something they had to live with as long as she was the main bread winner.
But her excuses had become empty, sometimes they were even blatant lies. His suspicions gnawed away at his core like trapped rats. They had driven him to smelling her blouse in the laundry basket one morning after a late appointment. It had smelt of sweat and aftershave. He had thrown it in the wash with all the other clothes, standing there until the water and detergent had cleaned away all of the evidence. His heart was throbbing with shame. How could he even think such a thing about his own wife?
He breathed slowly a few times to gather up his courage. “Therese,” he began, waiting for her to look at him.
“I simply don’t have the time, you’ll have to deal with it,” she said, taking a gulp of her wine. “After all, you’re just at home, fiddling.”
“I do actually work myself as well,” he said with a sigh. “But sure, I can talk to them.” His resolve fizzled out of him, taking all of the courage he had summoned away with it.
“Very well,” said Therese. “Have the publishers bought the book yet? It’s about time.” She met Jan’s gaze as she put her wine glass down.
“Not yet, no,” said Jan. “I’m working on other things while I’m waiting.”
“Provided it’s something you can sell.”
Jan sighed. “I’m doing what I can.”
Therese put her nail file down on the table with a snap. “I’m just speaking my mind. There are two of us in this household, but right now, as far as I know, I’m the only one paying the bills. It might be a stroke of luck that it’s all gone quiet on the drainage front. We can avoid thinking about the invoice for a while.”
“I’m waiting for Annika to get in touch.”
Therese rolled her eyes. “Waiting seems to be the only thing you do. I don’t like that Annika, by the way. She’s got eyes like a cow, ever thought about that?”
“No, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter what you think about her, she’s my publisher. Don’t forget she’s released two of my books so far.” Jan emptied his wine glass to displace the doubt bubbling up from the pit of his stomach again. “Why wouldn’t she want to have the third?”
“Suit yourself.” Therese smiled at Jan, with no cheer in her eyes. “Then it’ll soon be sorted, won’t it?” She cleared her plate away and disappeared down the stairs. He put the rest of the washing up in the dishwasher to the sound of a reality television show which was carrying up the stairs.
“Bollocks,” he said under his breath, slamming the door of the machine shut. His self-loathing was mounting while the gurgling dishwasher filled with water. He was a hopeless case. His wife was betraying him, like all of the other women in his life so far, and he wasn’t strong enough to ask what was wrong.
He replenished his wine glass from the box and took it with him down the stairs. Beyond the high windows of the entertainment room, the garden was pitch-black. The spruce trees at the edge of the forest stood out against the sky like swaying shadows in the moonlight. The television, scattering its pale light across the grass, was reflected in the windows and glinted in Therese’s absent eyes. Jan stopped for a few seconds at the foot of the stairs, considering whether to approach her again, but changed his mind and opened the door to his office.
This was a small room behind the living room which was reached via a short hallway to the storeroom. It was actually intended to be set up as a sauna but had never been used for anything other than an extra space for things, until he had converted it into an office. The storeroom, utility room and office were at the deepest part of the lower ground level and were without windows. There was a faint smell of old summer cabin and the walls were covered in stains from the moisture damage the drainage work was supposed to put right. When they had a fire going, the smell of mould was masked by the lingering scent of smoke from the fireplace, but it would soon come back again.
He put his wine glass down and woke his computer. Next to his laptop was an old portable typewriter that Therese had given him as a present when his debut novel The Whitsun Man was published. She had come across it at a second-hand bookshop and thought it was rather fun. It was a relic from the 80s, a slimline affair with a hard plastic cover and carrying handle. The old appliance’s metal casing had a beige powder coat finish, which had yellowed over the years. This was how it all began. He had been working on the manuscript by the time he and Therese had first met. She had encouraged him to continue writing. It was for his own benefit, so he could fulfil the dream he had of being a writer. And it would benefit them both, so they could live together on all of his royalties when his writing bore fruit. They had supported each other. They had loved each other.
Look at us now, he thought, swallowing a large gulp of wine.
His screen was glowing white in front of him, as blank as his brain. Time was creeping forward. His wine glass was slowly being emptied. His screen had nothing on it. His notepad likewise. The only thing that was expanding was the knot in his gut. The more he tried to focus and push his concerns aside, the more he was reminded of them.
The Whitsun Man had sold well. Extremely well. Its sequel, The Midsummer Woman, witnessed the same success. Jan Apelgren had been predicted a bright future as one of Sweden’s new thriller writers. He had handed in his notice at work to write full time. He and Therese had purchased the house mostly from his millions in royalties. Life was good. Then it all stopped and came crashing down. The last two royalty payments had been slim to say the least. While the pressure was on him to complete the next thriller in the Turwall series, he had realised that he simply didn’t want to write it. He just didn’t want to write any more thrillers. When he had mentioned it to Therese, she had pressured him into carrying on with Turwall for the sake of the money, so he did. In the meantime, she became increasingly distant, even cold, shrinking away when he tried to touch her. It had been more than a month since they had slept together, and as for the odd kiss, there was no question of that.
Now he was sitting there, drunk on wine, staring at a blank screen. Coming from the room next door was the eternal murmur of the television, mixing with Therese’s snoring on the sofa. The alcohol was stirring his emotions around and he felt his nausea increasing again. He wondered about going to bed and was just about to get up when he heard a prolonged, scraping sound. As if someone was dragging a sharp object along concrete. It stopped just as abruptly, but started again a few seconds later. It was coming from outside. Jan felt his heart racing and placed his hand on the old vertical thread paper that covered the basement wall.
He felt the next scraping sound as a vibration through the palm of his hand. There was somebody out there. He held his breath and listened. The blood was rushing in his ears so he couldn’t be sure, but he could swear that someone was whispering in his ear. He took a step away from the wall and bumped into the chair, almost losing his balance. The whispers and the rasping sounds stopped at once.
“What are you doing?” asked Therese from the door.
Jan spun round. “I…” he said, but stopped short. “I thought I heard something.”
Therese yawned. “I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too late, you’ll just work yourself up.”
For once, he agreed with her. But still. He had heard something, he was sure about that.
29
SATURDAY 28 MAY
The sound of them sharpening their claws on the concrete opened my eyes. Their whispers made me see the truth. She was cheating on me. She had betrayed me. So I killed her.
The telephone on the bedside table was vibrating. Annika’s head felt like a jar of treacle from yet another sleepless night. Her hand rambled around trying to turn the sound off in the hope of a few minutes’ sleep. Instead she managed to knock the telephone onto the floor.
“Well, answer it then,” Martin groaned beside her.
Annika shook off the covers and looked about the floor. Martin was right. It wasn’t the alarm.
“Who the hell rings at eight in the morning on a Saturday?” she said, fishing her mobile up from the rug.
“Annika Granlund?” said a woman’s voice at the other end.
“Yes?”
“It’s Emma Sieverts. Sorry for phoning this early.”
Annika’s head was spinning like a tumble dryer. She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for a let up in her dizziness.
“Who?”
“Emma Sieverts. Jan Apelgren’s lawyer. You came to my office in the autumn.”
Annika forced herself to her feet and tiptoed out of the bedroom. The wooden floor was cold beneath her feet. “Yes, I remember you. Is anything the matter?” She had forgotten the neighbours had a full view into their kitchen and ducked down when she saw one of them across the courtyard.
“I understand you and your husband are looking for a house. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is. We are. How come?” She could see the crumbs in the sunlight on the kitchen counter. Spring was in full swing and they were on the cusp of early summer. Fresh buds and foliage were bursting open in the bushes in the courtyard outside.
“As you know, I am the executor of the will for Jan Apelgren’s estate. One of the few assets in that estate is his house. The property has been empty for several years. It was showing signs of wear and tear so I had the worst of it done up. On Monday I thought I’d contact the estate agent to sell it.”
“Okay,” said Annika, mostly so as not to appear lost for words.
“I thought you might want to see it first?” said Emma. “If anyone’s a worthy buyer it’s you, if you both haven’t found anything already of course.”
“Yes, sure. Where is it?” Her chest tightened. The selection of houses out there hadn’t been brilliant lately. By this time, she was ready to listen to all suggestions.
